Jumping on Cars with Criminals
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Maybe this was a little more serious than Shawn had thought, because running around for hours and jumping on the hood of moving cars with untreated bullet wounds was dangerous, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Jumping on Cars with Criminals

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I have been working on this since "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" aired but have been rather slow about it. Now that new eps are about to start up again, I wanted to get this out there. It's my first attempt in the Psych fandom, though I do sort of hope these characters come my way again. They were a blast to write. So thanks to geminigrl11 who introduced me to the show and gave this a beta, as well as sendintheclowns, who also gave this a read through. It's a better piece for them :)

A/N: This will be three chapters and an epilogue. I will probably post every other day.

Summary: Maybe this was a little more serious than Shawn had thought, because running around for hours and jumping on the hood of moving cars with untreated bullet wounds was dangerous, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

PART ONE

As far as cases went, this one was not exactly as awesome as he'd hoped.

Sure, it'd had a stellar start. What with ice cream trucks and mechanics named Garth Longmore. Those were the details of fantasies, no doubt, and he was all for a little peril to make the reveal that much more magnificent, but this? Was not really what he'd counted on.

Okay, so jumping on the hood of a car had been kind of awesome, because really, how many people could say they jumped onto the hood of a moving vehicle? But given the way he was feeling right about then, he was pretty sure he knew why people didn't make a habit of it.

He kind of hurt, especially when there was already a hole in his shoulder--make that two holes, one in the front and one in the back, which was nice in a symmetrical kind of way but really not so nice in terms of pain, blood loss, and pain. Times two.

And besides all that, while he appreciated the windblown look, speeding down the highway at sixty miles an hour was a little too much for his regularly tousled 'do.

Maybe he could borrow a mirror.

Right after he stopped bleeding.

Though, maybe before, if it didn't soon. He certainly didn't want to die with hair like this.

Of course, all of that required movement, and right about then, he wasn't sure that was going to be possible. The only thing keeping him upright was Lassiter's semi-pristine car, and even so, vertical was getting to be quite a challenge.

Diesel and Rodriguez really needed to hurry up. Being Paul Walker was just as bad as he thought it'd be.

He panted, trying to figure out if there was a way out of dying as Paul Walker with bad hair. With no possible options, he looked at his father and Lassiter and sort of hoped they might have a solution.

Lassie did have a nice way with handcuffs and his father had the whole menacing thing going on, as if it were possible to kill a perp from a staredown alone. Which, come to think of it, maybe he could.

Just wait until his dad learned that that guy wasn't the one who had put a hole in his shoulder.

But he had given Shawn the head wound, which might explain why it hurt so much to think. Usually, he could put two and two together and come up with five, but right about then, he was only coming up with three, and a scant three at that.

One: this was serious enough for Lassie to be pissed on his behalf and dire enough that his father looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

Two: this was serious enough that Gus had agreed to his car being part of a police chase. Gus' secret aspirations to be Vin Diesel aside, company cars were not things Gus risked willingly, and though he had refused to allow Shawn to jump on his hood, the fact that he had allowed it to go that far at all did not seem to bode well for Shawn's current state.

Three: this was serious enough for his head to spin and for his stomach to churn. Cliche, perhaps, and he'd read Mentalist fan fiction that detailed it in far less melodramatic terms, but there was really no other way around it. It was a toss up at this point which would come first: throwing up or passing out, and if he had his pick, he'd have to pick passing out if only because it was far more impressive.

And there should be a four, but it was sort of hard to come by: maybe he had been wrong. Maybe this was a little more serious than he'd thought, because running around for hours and jumping on the hood of moving cars with untreated bullet wounds was dangerous, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

"Shawn?" a voice asked.

"Shawn, are you okay?" another one asked.

Shawn blinked, and squinted up. His father was there, a hand on his arm. And Gus was there, too, looking just like dehydrated St. Bernard. Mouth open, big puppy eyes, but no drool. Gus really needed to work on the drool.

Ha. That was funny. If he could only find a voice to make the joke.

"Maybe we should sit down," his father suggested, and that's when five really clicked into place.

Five: his father was _suggesting_. He wasn't ordering, he wasn't mocking, he wasn't doing anything begrudgingly. His dad was worried. No, scratch that, his dad was scared.

As his knees crumpled, Shawn slid down the side of Lassiter's car, only half aware of the hands reaching for him. He ended up awkwardly on his backside, pressed against the warm metal.

Someone swore. Someone else called his name.

Shawn blinked, once and twice, slowly and evenly.

"I think he's bleeding again," Juliet's voice said.

"Damn, he's got a fever," his father joined in.

"Oh my God," Gus said. "That's a lot of blood."

And that was six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. There was a reason first aid skills required pressure and why healing usually involved sitting still. Because anything could jostle open a wound and an untreated wound was a great place for infection to settle in.

All of which led Shawn to conclude that no, this case was not so awesome and that adrenaline and psychic visions could only get him so far. Ice cream trucks, Garth Longmore, and jumping onto cars: one through ten, and Shawn came to the big conclusion, not that anyone was listening to him anymore, but this one was a doozy. Perhaps one of his best, though the bad hair certainly was a hindrance.

And the reveal: Shawn Spencer was a victim of his own brilliance. Just smart enough to figure it out, and not quite quick enough to escape it. He could only stall so long and he could only run so far and he could only jump on so many cars before pain and blood loss caught up with him. All that excitement and drama and he just ran out of steam in the end.

"Shawn, can you hear me?"

"Ambulance is on the way."

"Shawn--_Shawn_--"

And point one hundred and fifty two? When the lights go out, they really go out, and that was all Shawn had left to say.

-o-

The guy shot his car.

Not just his car. The company car. The guy shot his _company car_.

Sure, he was in good with the boss now, but good enough to cover the cost of repairs? Gus highly doubted that, which sort of made this dude not his favorite person in the world.

Not that Gus commonly liked criminals. Criminals were too illicit, always breaking laws and cursing. Probably in front of children. And they probably didn't eat their vegetables, which would explain why they kept making stupid decisions. People with vitamin deficiencies probably couldn't make as good of decisions as people who ate their leafy greens.

Gus ate his with a side of orange ones daily, too. Preferably carrots. For his eyesight.

And to be safe, a vitamin or two. He got them wholesale at work.

So maybe he should have seen this coming when Juliet decided to commandeer the thing.

But damn, the thought of being Vin Diesel was kind of appealing.

Or had been, until they were left in the dust with nothing more than a fleeting view of the action.

Because the guy had shot _his car_.

"They shot my car!" Gus said, and okay, so it wasn't his brightest statement ever, but leafy greens or not, this wasn't a situation Gus was actually prepared for, not even on the most extreme days of running Psych with Shawn. There were the interesting days where Gus got to play backup forensics and there were the annoying days where Shawn just wanted to scream and yell a lot for effect and then, apparently, there were days when his best friend got shot, kidnapped, and then proceeded to jump on the hoods of cars.

He was going to have to talk to Shawn about eating some more vegetables. Otherwise, Gus might have to start crushing up vitamins and putting them in Shawn's pineapple smoothies and see if that helped improve Shawn's questionable decision-making skills.

"Damn it," Juliet said next to him, slamming her hand on the steering wheel. "They're getting away."

"Because he shot my car," Gus said.

Juliet frowned, keeping a steady hand on the wheel. The Echo lurched unsteady as it limped down the road. Squinting, Juliet looked out the window. "Can you see anything?"

Gus squinted, too. The chase was still going on up ahead, though it was getting hard to see. But maybe those carrots were working because Gus saw the truck swerve and smoke before Lassiter's car spun to a halt.

His eyebrows rose. "I think it's over."

Juliet straightened, vying for a better look. She pressed down on the gas, urging the damaged vehicle on.

Gus hated to think what this was doing to the rims, because he'd read the manual about what to do in case of blowout, and, while Juliet had done a rather spectacular job of easing the car to a slow pace, continuing to drive on a flat tire was likely increasing the damage.

But as much as Gus hated that this guy had shot his car (his _company _car), he sort of hated that he'd shot his best friend more.

No, Gus definitely hated that more.

He wouldn't let Shawn jump on his hood but he sure as hell wasn't going to sit by the side of the road in his _company _car while his _best friend_ was possibly bleeding to death.

"Do you think he's okay?" Gus asked, because he had to know. And Juliet was a cop. She would know.

Juliet, however, swallowed in a way that was entirely not reassuring. "I don't know," she admitted softly.

Which was all Gus needed to hear because it was everything he didn't want to hear. It was time for Fearless Guster to make an appearance, because if Shawn could pull a real Paul Walker and leap on the hood of a moving vehicle, then Gus could get out of his bullet-riddled car and straight into the heart of what was surely to be part of a crime scene.

Before the car even stopped moving.

Vin Diesel could eat his dust and weep.

Gus maintained that bravado for all of five seconds, until he actually saw Shawn. His best friend was leaned up against the side of Lassiter's vehicle. At first, it was hard to see around the commotion of the arrest taking place, but when Gus got his first look--his first _good_ look--he could see that Shawn was looking more than a bit worse for wear.

Not that it should have been surprising, but it still kind of was. After all, this was the Shawn who had been lamenting his fate as Paul Walker. If Shawn was joking, then Gus had believed that he couldn't be that bad off. Because that was a very Shawn thing. Get shot and kidnapped and all of that and _still_ be okay enough to be a generalized pain in everyone's asses.

Gus saw it happening before anyone else did, because Gus was Shawn's best friend. He did know the guy better than anyone else--even better than Mr. Spencer himself. Gus knew when Shawn was about to launch into a ridiculous "psychic" reveal. Gus knew when Shawn was going to get him irrevocably into trouble. Gus knew when Shawn was lying to him and Gus knew when that lie was going to be more problematic than entertaining. Gus knew when Shawn was going to hit on a girl and Gus knew when Shawn's patience was all used up. Gus even knew when Shawn was about to let loose with a deadly round of gas that would clear them both out of the Psych office for hours, possibly even _days_.

So, yeah. Gus knew Shawn pretty damn well and Shawn was about to pass out.

He saw it in the way Shawn couldn't quite push himself upright. He saw it in the way Shawn couldn't quite form a smile. He saw it in the way Shawn's eyelids blinked slowly.

But before Gus could do anything about it, Shawn was going, and it was just like Ninth Grade Health when they showed the video of a woman giving birth. It was the only time he'd seen Shawn freaked out by a woman and though Shawn later started a rumor that he'd actually been poisoned by a fellow student--which, frustratingly, everyone believed and when Gus tried to tell people the truth, they all suspected that he'd done it, which had been simply no good at all. Of course, Shawn had leveraged the entire situation to his advantage, totally obscuring the fact that he'd be freaked out to begin with, and leaving Gus with the annoying job of cleaning up the mess.

He'd been mad at Shawn for weeks, but watching Shawn go right down the side of Lassiter's car, Gus couldn't help but wish that they could fix this with as little as smelling salts and a well told lie. Because this time Shawn wasn't freaked out, he was passing out, which was enough to freak Gus out like no other.

Gus was fast, but not fast enough, and he was somewhat relieved when Mr. Spencer seemed to notice Shawn's predicament. Mr. Spencer suggested that Shawn sit down, and, in typical Shawn fashion, he followed the rules but with his own twist that made it by the book and completely not.

Instead of sitting, Shawn slumped with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, going boneless against the side of the car as he crashed awkwardly toward the pavement.

Gus was fast, but Mr. Spencer was closer, but neither of them were quite there in time to stop Shawn's descent, and the young psychic wound up pressed uncomfortably against the car, limp and pale.

Mr. Spencer was cursing and Juliet let out a gasping exclamation and all Gus could think about was why the hell he hadn't gotten to that salvage yard a lot quicker. Because as fast as he was now, Shawn was already shot and limp against the side of a police car on the side of the road and best friends didn't let that happen.

But apparently, they did. Because there they were. Gus was standing there, completely useless, and Shawn was breathing fast and strained, blinking hazily into the California sun.

He looked terrible. Worn and weary and, oh, God--

"I think he's bleeding again," Juliet said next to him and her voice shook, worse than it had at the police station, like she knew this was bad, this was bad, this was very, very, _very_ bad.

Mr. Spencer didn't turn to acknowledge her, but kept his eyes on Shawn. It would have surprised Shawn how gentle his dad was--but the steady, soothing movement of Mr. Spencer's hand on Shawn's brow was more than a little obvious and something Gus had known all along.

They were alike, Gus knew. Smart and stubborn, right and wrong, and they both cared about each other more than they would ever admit. The only thing that annoyed either of them more than each other was the thought of something happening to the other and Gus wondered if they'd ever figure that out.

Or if their constant bickering and one-up-manship was just another way of saying _I love you_ to those who experienced sensory overload on a day to day basis. Gus knew that when his nose was working overtime that other things tended to take a back seat, so maybe a photographic memory and a keen eye to the unusual and weird really did screw with one's ability to behave like a normal person.

"Damn," Mr. Spencer muttered. "He's got a fever."

Of course Shawn had a fever. Gus had taken first aid classes and was even certified as a first aid responder in three states. The key to any wound was proper cleaning. Preferably a thorough washing followed by a steady application of antibiotics.

Shawn had a _gunshot _wound, and an untreated one at that, and with running around and jumping on the hoods of cars, he was a prime candidate for an infection.

They needed to see the wound.

Gus was about to suggest that when he really got a look at it. In all the commotion, he hadn't taken the time to really look for it, but suddenly it was all he could see.

There was something like duct tape over the thing (which would do absolutely no good since it wasn't secured firmly over the wound) and worse, it was bleeding again.

A lot.

Gus' stomach churned. He'd been forced to look at dead bodies, even forced to touch and carry some of them from time to time, and while that was getting somewhat easier, this was _Shawn_. And it was _Shawn's blood_. He didn't like it when Shawn flaunted paper cuts in front of him, and this was a whole lot more than a paper cut. Even more than the time Shawn got hit in the face with a pineapple and got a bloody nose.

"Oh, my God," Gus said without even thinking. "That's a lot of blood."

True, he prided himself on being the more coherent of them, but that _was _a lot of blood. It was soaked through the pathetically placed shammy, spreading over the front of Shawn's shirt. And worse, it was coating Mr. Spencer's hands, which meant Shawn was bleeding from the front _and_ back.

Gus thought he might be sick again. Front and back. Entrance and exit. He had been working with the knowledge that Shawn had been shot for approximately thirteen hours but he had not fully grasped how not LOL _binshot_ really was.

The fact that no one had a platitude to comfort him with was a really foreboding sign. Especially since everyone was now acutely preoccupied with Shawn's bleeding wound.

Mr. Spencer was never the epitome of grace under pressure, but he was a consistent force no matter what, and Gus was not surprised that the same held true here. He shifted Shawn carefully, easing him until he was flat on his back then repositioning himself over his son.

"Shawn, can you hear me?" he asked, and it was a mixture of concern and demand, and if the man could control the universe, he would have bent it to fix Shawn right about then.

But Henry Spencer was only a man, no matter how observant and no matter how perfectly he could irritate Shawn. Only a man with bloody hands leaning over his only son.

Juliet kneeled down and hovered before putting a hand on Mr. Spencer's shoulder. "Ambulance is on the way."

"Shawn," his father called. "_Shawn_."

It didn't take much because Shawn didn't have much left to give. But Gus saw it happening anyway, with a painful clarity. He didn't need a photographic memory to know he'd never forget this. Shawn's eyes rolled lazily in their sockets, passing over Juliet and his father and to the blue sky until they met briefly with Gus'.

Gus wanted to hear a quip. He wanted to hear a snarky comeback. He wanted Shawn to tell him to stop acting like a walrus sucking on lemons. He wanted Shawn to be pissing off Lassiter with some over-the-top reveal. He wanted Shawn to be picking fights with his dad. He wanted Shawn to be flirting but not quite with Juliet.

He just wanted Shawn. Childish, perhaps, but Gus had been Shawn Spencer's best friend since they were five years old. That was too long and it'd be too hard to break someone else in and _damn it_, Shawn was his _friend_.

Gus was a pharmaceutical salesman. Not Vin Diesel. Only Shawn could make him believe otherwise.

Mr. Spencer puckered his mouth tersely, not looking up from Shawn. "Do we have an ETA on the paramedics?"

Juliet stood again, squinting toward the horizon. "Backup was already in pursuit," she said. "Let me ask."

She moved by Gus toward the other side of the car where Lassiter was forcing their bad guy into the back seat.

"Gus, give me a hand," Mr. Spencer barked at him.

Surprised, Gus looked back down. Mr. Spencer was craning his neck to look at him, giving a jerking nod back down to Shawn.

"Gus," he said again sharply.

Fumbling, Gus moved forward. "What do you need?"

"I need you to hold this," Mr. Spencer said.

At first, Gus thought he must have meant something else. Mr. Spencer needed him to hold his bag or a bottle of water. Maybe a phone or a spare taco or something like that.

But Mr. Spencer had none of those things. Confused, he cocked his head. "But--"

"The wound, Guster," Mr. Spencer snapped, using one hand to drag Gus to his knees. "I need you to put pressure on it."

Gus felt like flailing. "But you're doing a really good job," he stuttered out, trying not to look at the blood on Mr. Spencer's hands.

"And you can, too," he said. Then, before Gus could protest, Mr. Spencer directed Gus' hand down hard, pressing it on top of the soaked shammy with a surprising force before sitting back on his heels.

Gus felt himself want to lurch, but realized that he couldn't. Because now it was his hands on Shawn's shoulder--on Shawn's _bullet wound_--which mean that it was up to him.

Oh, God, it was up to _him_. He had to keep Shawn from bleeding out, right here, right now, it was just Gus and Shawn, which was how these things usually started and ended but Gus wasn't sure he could handle this. Any of it.

Not getting called out in the middle of the night. Not traipsing around town in his fireman pajamas. Not going on high speed chases. Not getting shot at in his company car.

And definitely not putting pressure on his best friend's bleeding shoulder on the side of the road.

He was going to say that--he really was--but when he looked up, Mr. Spencer was around the side of the car, pulling out the radio. Juliet was trying to stop him and Lassiter was yelling something about protocol and Gus heard Mr. Spencer seething in the most frightening voice he'd ever heard, "You listen to me, we have an officer down. Yes, an officer down, and we need paramedics _now_. No--not in five minutes. _Now_. And if you don't get them here _now_, I will come down and put his blood on your hands. Literally. Do you understand?"

Gus certainly understood, and he swallowed hard and pushed down harder.

Juliet was asking something and Lassiter was yelling and Mr. Spencer was fuming and Shawn was--

Shawn was bleeding.

Gus looked down--really looked--which he had been subconsciously avoiding because, really, this was not Gus' area of expertise.

He didn't need to be an expert to know that Shawn looked awful. And it wasn't even the paleness and it wasn't even the blood, though that certainly didn't make Gus feel any better--no, it was the stillness. The absolute, terrifying stillness.

Shawn was never still. He didn't know how to be still. He was always moving, always going, always doing _something_. Something like jumping out of trunks or making veiled phone calls or jumping onto cars. Shawn had to move, because Gus needed someone to keep up with. Without Shawn setting pace, Gus was too often stagnant in these things. Sure, he could learn how to pick locks and he could read comic books, but when it came to taking chances, going outside his comfort zone--that was all Shawn. It was why Shawn was a perfect best friend, not that Gus would ever admit it.

Well, maybe he would. Today, anyway. Just for the day. If Shawn would just wake up.

Gus heard sirens somewhere off in the distance and Mr. Spencer was kneeling next to him, Juliet right behind him. Mr. Spencer was focused on Shawn, which was about right, and Gus wondered if Shawn would be surprised by that. Juliet looked at Gus, though, her eyes a little wide and her expression worried. "How is he?" she asked.

Gus swallowed, looking at Shawn again. Shawn looked much the same, maybe even worse, with a pallid complexion and blood-soaked shirt.

But this was Shawn. Shawn Spencer. Fake psychic, screw up son, best damn friend ever: he defied logic and common sense and worst-case scenarios. If he could make the police believe he had a sixth sense, if he could make his impossible-to-please father _proud_, if he could get Gus to take his company car on a high speed chase--then Shawn could do this, too.

"He'll be fine," Gus said.

"He's bleeding all over the damn pavement," Mr. Spencer interjected. "Where the hell is the damn ambulance?"

Bleeding all over the pavement, fine--well, whatever. Gus was pretty sure he'd heard it both ways.

"Dude," a weak voice broke his thoughts. "Are you crying?"

Surprised, Gus looked down. Shawn was still mostly limp on the ground, but his eyes were slit open, staring glassily up at him. "Shawn," he said, eyes widening. "Oh, my God. You're okay."

Mr. Spencer leaned over, almost making Gus fall over. He put a steadying hand on Shawn's arm. "Hey, kid," he said with a softness that belied the utter panic Gus knew lurked inside. "You just need to sit tight, okay?"

Shawn raised his eyebrows marginally. "Another brilliant idea, Dad," he murmured. "Since, you know, I thought this might be a good time to pull out the song and dance routine I was going to pitch to Gus for Quarter Black."

Mr. Spencer made a face. Gus shook his head. "No dancing," he said. "Just singing. Dancing limits our appeal with a broader audience."

"But is awesome," Shawn insisted. Then he winced, shifting a little.

"Whoa," Mr. Spencer said. "Keep still, remember?"

Shawn looked confused for a second. "Gus, why are you pushing so hard?"

"So you won't bleed to death," Mr. Spencer interjected.

Gus nodded readily, adjusting his position.

Shawn grimaced. "So if I'm the one in pain, why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," Gus said, lifting his chin proudly. "You know I get bad hay fever sometimes and the pollen count must be off the charts."

"Are we going to kiss next?" Shawn asked.

"I don't kiss men."

"You kissed Bob, the cable man."

"I was six," Gus said. "And he'd just fixed our cable in time to watch the U.S. Open. You know I wanted to be Boris Becker back then."

"Exactly," Shawn said.

Mr. Spencer groaned as the sirens grew louder.

"So why would I kiss you?"

"Isn't that a first aid thing?"

"That's CPR, Shawn," Gus said. "You only use it on victims who aren't breathing."

Shawn nodded a little before his eyes lost focus, his head lolling a little.

Mr. Spencer cursed. "Shawn," he said, shaking Shawn a little. "Stay awake."

Shawn made a face, and his eyes roamed. "That hurts, Dad."

Mr. Spencer set his face grimly. "That's the point."

There was yelling behind them, and the sound of the siren was almost deafening, but Gus didn't dare move. Shawn was still bleeding on the side if the road after all, and Gus was pretty sure he was so scared that he couldn't move, even if he wanted to.

Shawn blinked blearily, looking at Gus one more time. "I'd kiss you if I had to," he said, quite seriously. "Unless you ate onion rings at lunch, man. Those things are lethal. Like deep fat fried time bombs that explode all night long."

"You're the one who can't handle them," Gus said.

Shawn giggled lightly, closing his eyes. "Better pucker up," he said, his voice trailing off again.

When Gus realized that Shawn was, in fact, passing out. Which, perfect. Gus' company car had holes in it, he'd lost a day of work, he hadn't slept since yesterday, and Shawn was still effectively bleeding to death on the side of the road. To make things worse, he was manipulating Gus into feeling guilty for not kissing him, even though that would be entirely inappropriate, both as man friends and given the fact that Shawn was, in fact, still breathing.

That was so like Shawn--difficult, frustrating, and ultimately impossible to stay angry at.

"Medics are here," Mr. Spencer said.

A hand shook his shoulder. "Gus," Juliet said. "You can let go now."

"Sir, we can handle this."

"Gus," Mr. Spencer said. "You've done everything you can. Let them work."

Gus shook, looking up. There was a medic behind him, all dressed in navy and carrying a supply case. Mr. Spencer looked like he was about to kill something and Juliet looked like she might cry.

If only Shawn could see this.

Gus swallowed hard.

He would go anywhere with Shawn, sometimes under duress and usually with much complaining, but he knew his place. Having to relinquish it, for any reason, was hard.

Really hard. Harder than trying to hold back an eye roll every time Shawn said he was psychic.

"Gus!"

Feeling numb, Gus let the pressure go, shifted back onto his heels as the paramedics swooped in. Gus recognized some of the lingo, and he certainly could identify much of the equipment. It might have been kind of awesome if it hadn't been all for Shawn.

_Come on, Gus. Don't be a soggy bag of potato chips. Geek out while you can_.

But it didn't make sense why the _bag_ would be soggy, because the _bags_ were some kind of aluminum derivative or something. They didn't get _soggy_. Unless of course Shawn was referring to the _chips _and not the bag, which meant that Shawn must have missed that lesson on properly placing the adjective to improve overall clarity in English class.

_Unless I'm really talking about the bag. Have you ever tried to open one of those bags when they're wet? Not easy, my friend. Knowing what salty goodness awaits you and fumbling with the bag is simply a horrible plight._

But that wasn't what Shawn meant, and Gus knew it.

_How can I be sure?_

Because this was a conversation in Gus' head. Damn, he needed to tone down his inner Shawn voice.

_Touche, my friend. Touche._

Though it wasn't a hard argument to win, since Shawn was still unconscious on the pavement. His shoulder was bandaged again--heavily this time, with what Gus easily recognized as a pressure bandage, and another paramedic was positioning a backboard next to Shawn. With surprising efficiency, Shawn was rolled and eased back down, the board under his back.

It was just like Gus had read about. Down to the strong Velcro used to keep Shawn in place before they lifted it into the air and place it securely on the gurney.

Even Mr. Spencer's reaction, a cross between fretting and angry, was a textbook example. He had a steady hand on Shawn's good arm, keeping pace as the medics moved to the ambulance. "I'm going with you," Mr. Spencer demanded.

There was no room for argument, and the medics, to their credit offered none. Gus could only watch in morbid fascination as Shawn's pale visage disappeared behind the doors. The sirens started up again, splitting through Gus' consciousness viciously, before the ambulance pulled away.

The ambulance was gone. Shawn was gone. And Gus was left at a crime scene, alone, with no means of transportation to do anything.

Lassiter was standing by his car, radio in hand. He looked grim and more than a little weary as he kept casting glances at the prisoner sequestered in back.

It was Juliet who stood next to him, seemingly equally stunned, and Gus didn't have to have a photographic memory to know there was something to that. From her bizarre questions at Shawn's apartment to her shaken phone call during Shawn's abduction.

_Dude, you're speculating about my love life now? Really?_

Shawn just needed to shut up, that was all.

_I will when you will. Literally._

Shawn could be so juvenile.

_And Gus can be_--

A soggy bag of potato chips, Gus was already aware.

_So do something about it_.

Gus intended to, he really did.

_So you're still standing there why?_

Because he was _alone_, with _blood_ on his hands, and he was lonely and scared and tired.

The ambulance was out of sight now, and Juliet was running a hand through her hair, muttering something about paperwork.

That was well and good for Juliet, but not for Gus. He had his responsibilities in order. Since the car was already a lost cause, it was time to focus on Shawn, even if that meant hitchhiking all the way to the hospital.

_Really? In my shirt_?

Gus had to smile. Yeah, in _this_ shirt. In any shirt. Be it Shawn's or Gus' or Lassiter's or even Juliet's.

Because that was what friends did.

No, that was what _brothers _did.

_You're getting all sappy on me_.

Gus certainly was. And Shawn would be alive long enough to chide him for it as often as he liked.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to those who read and reviewed :) This ended up being a bit of a jaunt of character exploration for me, trying out the many voices of Psych. So, anyway, all other notes in part one! Thanks!

PART TWO

Damn paramedics.

Henry glowered at the one sitting across from him. The rig was cramped and with every bump, his head hit the console above him, which was pretty stupid design or really poor driving or maybe just really poor upkeep. The gear didn't seem properly stowed, and he was pretty sure that the way the guy behind the wheel twitched from time to time, he could only deduce that this pair of paramedics was maybe a bit sub-par. There was no way that a rig should have so much stuff littered around, and the guy upfront was either a coffee junkie in severe withdrawal or an anal retentive who had just been reprimanded for poor driving on the job.

The medic across from him met his gaze and smiled. Like a dimwitted dog greeting an angry master.

Henry looked away, as much for his sake as theirs. This was hell on his blood pressure as it was without having to run through a mental checklist of why the damn paramedics should be cited for protocol lapses.

Like, why wasn't Shawn covered more appropriately? His kid looked cold there, and it didn't matter if this was California or a freakin' volcano, the kid was shot and shocky, so where the hell was the damn blanket? For that matter, the IV wasn't even taped properly. It was in, but it looked like a shoddy job at best. Sure, Shawn was unconscious, but Henry had told them that Shawn had been coherent only moments before, so wasn't it possible that Shawn would come to and jar it?

"Sir, do you want me to add another piece of tape?" the paramedic asked, glancing at Henry a bit uncertainly. "He's fine as is, but if it will make you feel better--"

Henry clenched his jaw, refusing to feel sheepish. "I still say he needs a blanket."

"The IV is warm," the paramedic said. "Everything is exactly according to protocol."

Henry drew his lips together and sighed.

Damn paramedics. Henry never had trusted them. All their gear and their protocol, spending all their time doing paperwork and double checking their damn i's and t's just to put on a pressure bandage. Their first duty should be to the patient, not their paperwork, but this kid across from him had spent more time filling out forms than monitoring Shawn.

And that didn't even begin to touch on their lack of timeliness. They had taken fifteen minutes to get their asses to a crime scene with confirmed injuries. He knew it was out of town and that the traffic had been heavy, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been slow. Five minutes would have been forgettable, seven would have been forgivable, but fifteen?

Henry had half a mind to take their badge numbers and report them, just for the sheer principle of the thing.

But Henry also had the rest of his mind to remind him of the fact that these yahoos were the only two things that were going to get his son someplace where he could get treatment.

In the end, Henry Spencer was a practical man, and he knew his priorities.

Take care of Shawn first.

Always take care of Shawn first.

He'd get these two fired afterwards. When Shawn was stitched up, transfused, and bitching like the little jackass that he was.

And, truthfully, Henry wasn't just pissed at the paramedics. They had their part to play in all this, but blaming them was nothing more than juvenile deflection. Something that Shawn would be prone to.

Like father, like son. Henry hid it well, but he recognized more of himself in Shawn than either of them would admit. Detective Lassiter had been right about that much in this whole debacle.

The fact was, Henry was a little off his game. He should have picked up on the gas station the first time around. The attendant--no, the _perp_--had been too damn specific. The details about the hair, not having all his marbles, and the precise time and direction. It had been too good. He'd lectured Shawn countless times about that one, about not trusting the ones who gave you everything you wanted, but _damn it_, Henry had really wanted this one.

This was _Shawn_.

His kid.

His _Shawn_.

Scrubbing a hand over his head, Henry blew out a frustrated breath. He was getting soft in his old age. He looked over his kid and set his jaw. Soft in every way.

So this was partially his fault. Shawn, laid out on the stretcher in the back of a speeding ambulance, was his responsibility. He couldn't have kept the idiot from taking the bullet in the first place--Shawn was too strong willed to listen about things like that--but Henry should have prevented the subsequent kidnapping, high speed chase, and the whole jumping on cars incident.

He almost had to laugh. That was typical Shawn. Never thinking things through. Doing them with flair and gusto but ultimately throwing caution to the wind and hoping for the best. Shawn's deductive reasoning was top of the line, but cold hard facts never could get them all the way. There was always that last little leap of faith that Henry liked to back up with double-checking and a badge.

Shawn just liked to take his hunches and go with them, right on top of speeding vehicles or in front of bullets.

The bullet wound wasn't necessarily serious. Sure, it was a gunshot wound, which automatically made it nothing to mess around with, but it wasn't one that was intended to kill. People didn't take pot shots at the shoulder from a close range unless they're blind as a bat or doubting their next move. No, Shawn had been lucky in that regard, but at this point, Henry wasn't sure how much that luck was worth.

It was an untreated wound, which made it ripe for infection. More than that, it was an aggravated wound, again, thanks to Shawn's misplaced sense of heroics.

And Henry also knew that shoulder wounds were horribly underrated. They were the romanticized gunshot, the kind written into TV shows to add an element of peril without necessarily creating a life threatening injury. But the reality? There were numerous arteries and blood vessels in the shoulder, and if one was nicked, victims could just as easily bleed out from the shoulder as the chest. True, shoulders were less messy than the stomach, but muscle damage wasn't anything to ignore.

And given the placement of Shawn's wound, it could have nicked the bone. It had gone through, which was good in many ways, but the shoulder were complicated and any bone fragments could cause trouble even after the immediate injury.

Which Shawn really did know. But Shawn hadn't cared enough to mind that kind of detail. Because the damn kid had jumped on a car and took a serious injury and made it a whole lot worse.

Henry felt his cheeks burn. He had jumped on the hood of a speeding car. Typical Shawn. Never mind the fact that if the truck had sped up or if Shawn had misjudged the gap, the kid would have been splattered on the pavement. Not to mention how hard it would be to hold on, especially with one arm impaired, which could have resulted in being run over. But Shawn had to go for the show.

Sure, Henry wasn't stupid enough to think it was all about the show. Partially, yes. Because Shawn liked his theatrics. But that wasn't all of it.

Shawn had been scared. He had wanted out. Even if that meant jumping on a car and reopening the bullet wound and therefore putting his life in jeopardy.

And it was in jeopardy, even if the damn paramedics wouldn't own up to it. Henry glanced at the guy in the rig across from him. It was a kid, maybe a few years younger than Shawn. A rookie, which was why he kept double-checking all the forms. And this was probably his first gunshot wound, knowing Henry's luck, since the damn rookie kept checking the IV and repositioning the oxygen mask in an exercise of utter futility.

Not that Henry didn't want the kid to check up on Shawn, but he would have felt better if he was doing something more proactive. It was all proficient enough, with the IV and the oxygen mask, but there was virtually no wound management and minimal attention to Shawn's vitals. Which could mean anything, really, and Henry was having a hard time figuring out if this kid was just taking precautionary measures on a wound he didn't deem serious or if he was scared as hell over a high-grade trauma he didn't know quite how to deal with.

Neither of which made Henry feel better.

Henry swallowed hard, and looked at the ground. All his deductive reasoning and observational skills and none of it could get him what he wanted.

He looked up again, and let his eyes linger on Shawn. His kid. Henry raised him to be a cop, and look where it got them. He should have seen this coming. He should have known the first time he taught Shawn how to answer all the questions that the main thing he'd find was the answers he shouldn't know.

The answers that got him shot.

Shawn looked young--younger than he should--and suddenly it was like Shawn was eight years old again. Still a smart-ass but still looking for Henry's approval. Even now, even with this psychic crap, it was Shawn's way of being accepted, of finding his place.

It wasn't what Henry had wanted for his son, but it was pretty damn close.

He gritted his teeth, and looked at the bandage on Shawn's shoulder. He looked at the flecks of blood on his cheek. He looked the stillness of his body.

It was close enough. It had to be close enough.

The kid across from him smiled. "He's doing great."

Henry didn't smile back. "Do other people believe that crap?"

The kid looked vaguely queasy. "He seems like a tough guy."

"Tough doesn't have anything to do with it," Henry said, his patience thin. "Simple biology. He has a hole going through his shoulder and you don't know what's going on with it. You don't know if it's hit bone or what muscles it's screwed up. You probably don't even know for sure if it's bleeding much or not anymore. And when was the last time you checked his vitals?"

The kid looked like a deer in the headlights. "His vitals are holding steady," he said.

Henry arched his eyebrows. "Then why is his heart rate accelerating?"

Perplexed, the kid shook his head, his eyes flickering to the monitor. "Sir, please, if you're going to ride with us, you are going to have to let us do our work."

At that, Henry laughed, because, really, at this point, he'd had enough. He'd been dragged out of the bed in the middle of the night because his son had been shot. He'd gone along with some know-it-all detective on a hike through the woods and then he'd missed the vital clue. He'd left his son in the hands of two maniacs, and then watched his kid--his only damn kid--nearly kill himself on top of it all. Then he'd waited fifteen minutes for an ambulance while Shawn let loose some blood volume and now he was riding across from some kid who was more worried about a paperwork error than Shawn's well being. He'd tried patience. He'd tried understanding. He'd drive this damn rig himself if he had to, but the fact was, he was just a retired cop who knew basic first aid. Shawn was possibly bleeding out from an aggravated gunshot wound, and they wanted to tell him that Shawn looked like a tough guy and he was doing fine?

If the first was true, that didn't make the second true, because tough or not, Shawn was unconscious in an ambulance, and all Henry really wanted was _someone _to do their job. "I'd love to let you do your job, if you would actually start doing it instead of piddling around with the paperwork!" he yelled.

"Sir, I told you about the blanket," the paramedic said, his brow furrowed.

"And I'm telling you, _look_ at my kid," he said, because Henry could see it plain as day. As much as he tried to distract himself with the paramedics and the protocol and the blame, he could still put two and two together and come up with the answer staring at him in the face.

Because something was wrong, something was very, very wrong. More than Shawn being still, more than Shawn being quiet, it was the bloodstain on the bandage, it was the gray tint of his skin, it was the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Shawn was all about instincts. Henry was much more about proof. But he'd be a liar if he couldn't admit that the two were actually interrelated and that a Spencer always used one to find the other. And what was his gut telling him? Henry didn't have to be psychic to know that the growing pit in his stomach was more than a distaste for paramedic protocol gone bad.

It was something more than that, and Shawn was giving him all the proof he needed.

The heart rate was fluctuating, up and down, and up and down, and Henry knew the BP was going to plummet a second before it happened.

That was the thing with good observational skills. Sometimes they gave you answers you really didn't want to know.

Things like _your wife is leaving you_.

_Your son stole a car_.

_Your son will never be what you dreamed he would be_.

_Your son is hurt and you should have stopped it_.

But this one took the cake: _your son is dying and the paramedic is doing paperwork_.

Because in all of it--in all the lectures, the fights, the disappointments, the frustrations--none of it meant jack crap in the face of the one thing that mattered. He could be gruff, he could be a hard-lined son of a bitch, he could be anything he damned well pleased, but without _Shawn_, what was he anyway?

A retired cop? A tough old bastard with a penchant for ugly shirts? A divorcee who didn't really find any women more attractive than the one who had left him?

A father. A _father_.

And that sort of required having a son.

So this couldn't happen.

This _couldn't _happen.

He didn't raise that kid, train that kid, _find _that kid, to see him go out like this. Hell, _no_.

A monitor blipped once, and the paramedic frowned right as the thing let out a wail.

And the worst of it was that, for all his resolve, there was _nothing _Henry could do.

In all his years on the force, all his years as a father, he'd never felt like this. Helpless. Completely helpless.

Just like that, Henry's mind stopped working. He stopped paying attention to the details. He didn't look to see what the paramedic was doing. He didn't stop to hear what the kid was saying. He didn't think to observe any of it--not the IV, the pressure bandage, the speed of the vehicle--just the one thing left that mattered.

Shawn.

He knew his son well. He knew every facial feature. He knew the cowlicks in his hair. He knew the scar on his right forearm from a Boy Scout camping trip gone wrong when the kid was ten. He knew the lilt of his smile. He knew the keenness of his eyes when the kid was onto something. He knew the exasperated tone of the kid's voice when there was something he wanted but just couldn't get.

He knew his kid was a smart ass and damn near brilliant.

He knew his kid wanted to piss him off sometimes, but more often, just wanted to make him proud.

He knew that for every time the kid pissed him off, Henry was almost always proud.

And damn it, with all the equipment, all the blood, all the trauma--there was a lesson here that Henry didn't need astute observational skills to pick up on.

_Focus on what matters_. It didn't matter how he got there, he just had to get there. That was what Shawn's psychic crap was all about. The destination was exactly what Henry had always wanted, but Shawn had insisted on taking his own route. The flailing and show was all too much for him, but, in the end, his kid was fighting the good fight and doing it pretty damn well. Sometimes you had to stop wanting because you already had it.

Henry had spent over thirty years trying to make Shawn grow up.

There, in the back of an ambulance, Henry realized that maybe Shawn already had.

"Sir," the paramedic was saying. "_Sir_."

Henry flinched, looking up again. "What?"

"We're at the hospital," he said, and he sounded breathless and a little weary. "You'll have to stand out of the way while we get him transferred."

Henry looked at Shawn again. The kid looked worse, somehow. Still pale and still _still_, and the bandage looked worse and the rise and fall of his chest was almost indiscernible.

_Stand out of the way, my ass._

As the ambulance came to a stop, the paramedic stood, unlocking the wheels on Shawn's gurney. The door opened, and the other medic stood waiting as they started to maneuver the gurney out.

Without missing a beat, Henry jumped down beside them, placing a guiding hand on one side of the gurney, letting it brush against Shawn's arm.

"Sir," the paramedic said. "Why don't you head over to the waiting room while we get your son checked in?"

Henry smiled a little, hard and menacing. He didn't look up as they went through the ER doors. "Kid," he said. "This is my _son_, and I just spent the last ten hours looking for him through the back country outside Santa Barbara. That doesn't even begin to touch on the thirty-one years I've raised and trained this kid, even when he pissed and moaned the whole time. So if anyone is going to head over to the waiting room, it's going to be you, because I'm staying with my son."

If the paramedic protested, Henry didn't hear it. Wouldn't hear it. Not while there were more important things to do.

-o-

It was always about justice.

Figure out the crime, catch the suspects, and bring them in. Simple and straightforward, just the way Lassiter liked it.

Except where Shawn Spencer was involved.

Lassiter still wasn't convinced Spencer was psychic, and he certainly would never suggest that the guy was anything but a pain in his ass, but he was good at what he did. Even if he did it in the most annoying and difficult and ridiculous ways possible, Shawn Spencer was a damn good detective.

Who had a habit of royally screwing up everything Lassiter did. If Lassiter thought a case was solved, Spencer pointed out otherwise. If Lassiter thought suspect X was guilty, Spencer was damn near determined to suggest that witness Y was actually the culprit. And even when they _were _on the same page, Lassiter had to jump through hoops and listen to a lot of yelling and babbling before the resolution ever came.

Which was why as useful as Spencer could be, Lassiter really did appreciate a Spencer-free case.

Not so much his luck.

Because if Spencer was a pain in the ass when he was working _with _Lassiter, he was the ultimate thorn in Lassiter's side when Spencer was the victim.

_Victim_.

It made Lassiter's stomach twinge and he cast a glare at the perp, locked nice and safe in the back of the squad car. It had taken long enough--and Lassiter would make sure that the department heard his thoughts on that, taking almost fifteen minutes to provide back up on a pursuit with injuries--it simply was not acceptable. But they'd showed up with force--a handful of squad cars, a pair of ambulances, and even a few CSIs to see what evidence they could collect.

Because yeah, it seemed like a cut-and-dry case. The perp and his downed colleague had schemed to hit an armed car. Given their records, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility and given the low pay for ex-cons, the need for cash wasn't a stretch either. They'd practiced on Lassiter's bemoaned ice cream truck, readied for the real thing, when Spencer, being his usual brilliant self, had found out and ended up in the right place at the wrong time.

Spencer didn't like to think so, but bad guys did bad things, like shoot over-talkative psychics who figured out the master plan. That Spencer was still alive was actually a surprise to Lassiter. The shot at the storage yard had been from close range--it would have been an easy kill. But robbery was not the same as murder, and Carlton knew that even hardened criminals weren't always that hard.

But that didn't mean that they were innocent, nor did it mean that they wouldn't resort to kidnapping for leverage.

Who had started the mess was really still in question, but Lassiter knew that the one he needed to nail to the wall was the one they had in custody. He didn't know the status of the one at the hospital, but since this guy was the last perp standing, he was most likely the mastermind and most definitely the one Lassiter needed to make a case against. Attempted murder was probably a slam dunk since he had the gun and the slugs from the gas station, and kidnapping wouldn't be too hard since Shawn had been tied up in the back of the guy's pick up.

But evidence was important, because this case had to be airtight. This case was about Spencer.

Hell, it was about one of Lassiter's own. There was no way he could let anything slip by.

Scowling, he strode around to the backside of the pickup. The CSI was doing his work, carefully combing the thing for fibers and other relevant information. Passing him by, Lassiter moved to the bed of the truck.

Inside, he could see the rope. The ends were frayed where Spencer had broken free.

Idiot could get himself out of a rope but then had the lack of mind to jump on a moving car. _Lassiter's _moving car.

Moron could have killed himself and left Lassiter with even more of a mess to clean up.

Bristling a little, he turned away again, looking back toward his car. O'Hara was there, sealing up a plastic bag and handing it off to a uniformed officer. Pursing his lips, he made his way over. "You got anything?" he asked.

She swallowed a little. "Just bagging up some possible evidence," she said. "The, uh, shammy from Shawn's shoulder. I thought we might need to place it back at the garage to prove the link between the guy there and Shawn's original kidnapping. Gus said that the one back at the gas station was the one who they met at the auto shop, so he may have been our original shooter."

Which made sense. If the original perp had been the one to shoot Shawn, he would be targeted as the weak link in the partnership for not offing Spencer when he had the chance. Lassiter nodded. "Smart thinking, O'Hara," he said.

She smiled weakly. "Yeah," she said. "Just doing my job."

This was hard for her, that much was obvious. And, okay, it was also obvious that she was close to Shawn. Maybe wanted to be closer. Not that Carlton had any real desire to know, but she didn't exactly hide it well.

And okay, so maybe Spencer had that effect on people. He was damn endearing when he wanted to be, and even Lassiter couldn't completely deny that.

Though he would try to, almost without question.

But--this was his partner. This case had been hard on all of them, and yet here O'Hara was, still doing her job when Lassiter knew without a doubt that the only thing she wanted was to be at the hospital.

Lassiter didn't want to ask. He didn't want to push it.

But, damn it, he had a heart in there somewhere. Enough for his ex-wife to rip it out and stomp on it, so the least he could do was offer Juliet some comfort.

He hedged a little, trying to find the words. This was not his area of expertise--not by a long shot. "You did good," he said, wincing inwardly at how trite it sounded. "We found him."

O'Hara smiled, a little rueful. "Thanks to his clues."

Lassiter shrugged a little. "He's a good part of the team," he conceded.

She looked at him, head cocked a little, almost surprised. "He is, isn't it?"

Lassiter nodded. "As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes we couldn't get the job done as well without him."

At that, she laughed.

He frowned. "What?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing," she said, smiling tiredly. "It's just that everyone seems to know just what they need to say today. I mean, you and Gus and Shawn's dad and even Shawn--all know how to say what you need to say and it's perfect and right and I can't come up with anything."

His frown deepened. This was why he avoided personal conversations with his peers. Especially women. He never knew what they were talking about.

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Just--never mind," she said. "I just--it's different when it's someone you know. Someone you care about."

A lump lodged in Lassiter's throat. O'Hara was talking about herself, of course, and whatever feelings she had for Spencer. But she was right. This case had been hard and not because it was difficult and not because he had to work with Henry Spencer, who turned out to be just as dogged and annoying but far less amusing than Shawn. But because this was Shawn.

He could analyze the facts, he could look coldly at a crime scene. He could look at traces of blood and remnants of rope and collected bloodstained shammies with the best of them.

But dealing with the fact that this was where Spencer had nearly been killed, that the rope had tied Shawn up, that the bloodstains were _Shawn's_--was a whole other story.

She sighed, blowing out a breath. She pulled off her gloves with a snap before running a hand through her hair. "It looks like they've got it together," she said, her eyes sweeping over the scene. "We'll have to formally interview the witnesses, but I should probably catch a ride back to the station and get started on the paperwork."

Lassiter nodded, chewing his lower lip a little. "I can do the witnesses," he said. "I'll have to call for a tow on Guster's car. Where is he anyway?"

"He caught a ride with a unit to the hospital," she said. "Seemed like the least that we could do for him."

O'Hara was right about that as well. Guster was only marginally less annoying than Spencer, but only because he had the slightest notion of common sense, which Shawn so clearly lacked. But Spencer and Guster were a team--partners, as much as Lassiter and O'Hara were. He was never totally sure what Guster brought to the duo, but then again, he was never entirely sure what Shawn brought to it either. Somehow, they could pair nonsense and insanity and sometimes come up with brilliance.

"Well, I think we can get to him later," Lassiter said. "Not like we could trust his story to be succinct anyway."

O'Hara made a small face and seemed distracted. "Right," she said. "You headed back?"

"No, I'm going to wait and take the perp in and call to see how the other guy is doing in the hospital."

O'Hara nodded her agreement, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. She was going through the motions, being the good cop Lassiter knew she could be, but this wasn't where she wanted to be. This wasn't where she should have been.

Hell, none of them were really good for this case. It was just like he told Henry early on--it wasn't good to be personally involved. But they were _all_ personally involved. And yeah, it bothered Carlton that there was a smudge of blood on the hood of his car, not because it devalued it, but because it was Shawn's.

Yes, he had a heart. He did and he didn't want to admit it, but he had to.

Just like he had to admit that O'Hara shouldn't have to be there. Juliet needed to check on Shawn. As a friend, as something more--Lassiter didn't care. And sure, it would be inconvenient and maybe it was somewhat against standard protocol but maybe he could respect this much about Spencer: he knew when to break the rules.

Lassiter didn't break them often, but this was a time for it.

"O'Hara," he called out, feeling awkward.

She turned back at him, squinting a little in the sunlight.

He cleared his throat, trying not to feel ridiculous. "Why don't you go down to the hospital," he suggested.

"Check on Garth Longmore?"

"No," Carlton said. He licked his lips and resigned himself to it. "Maybe see how Spencer's doing."

"But the paperwork," she said.

He waved a hand dismissively. "I can handle it," he said.

"But the investigation--"

"Is a slam dunk," he finished for her. "Besides, we'll need a statement from Shawn when he wakes up, and since you're far more likely to humor him with his process, maybe you should go."

She paused and studied him for a long moment, with something like confusion in her eyes. Then, she smiled, a hint of gratitude on her face. "Are you sure?"

Lassiter was always sure, almost by default. The decisions he made, he made completely. He wasn't always right, but he always had to go on like he was. Spencer wasn't the only one with a process.

And the fact of the matter was that just as much as Guster and O'Hara deserved to stand by a fallen comrade, the person who really deserved it, more than the rest of them, was Spencer. Lassiter wasn't a soft man by any stretch of the imagination and the plain, simple truth was that Spencer had impressed him. For figuring it out. For surviving. For helping end it. He was a victim, but he had never been powerless. That was something that Carlton could and did respect.

Shawn had proven himself in many ways over the last few years, but today he'd proven himself on a whole new level.

Lassiter smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."

"Thanks," she said. She hesitated. "I'll just--get a unit to take me over."

It was always gratifying to do the right thing. As much as Lassiter enjoyed guns and arresting people, the fundamental notion of justice was satisfying in and of itself. Sometimes it was nice to see someone smile because of something he did.

Yes, it was also fun to catch someone in a lie and get a confession out of them and it was _really _fun to see how many times he could hit the target at the shooting range and nothing quite topped the sound of a jail cell closing on a prisoner--it was like his own personal high, better than any drug or idiotic X-game sport some lame-ass teenager could come up with. It made him feel alive, it made him feel _powerful_, like he was the strongest man in the entire _world_--

But yeah, the whole making people happy thing wasn't bad either.

"And O'Hara," he called after her.

She paused and looked at him.

It was out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop and think about it: "Tell Spencer I'll be by to visit him later."

She almost looked surprised at that. "Oh," she said.

"For questioning," Carlton clarified quickly, feeling a slight flush rise on his cheeks. There were reasons that he didn't like to open up to people--and not just because they were annoying about it, but because sentimentality was weakness. He might afford it to others in the right situations, but he had to buck up and take it like a man. No, like a _cop_. "He's my lead witness."

She nodded knowingly, a small smile on her face. "Of course," she said. "I'll let him know."

Lassiter gave a perfunctory nod before turning back to his crime scene. He had a job to do, and he would do it. The fact that this was for Spencer--a colleague and maybe a friend--didn't matter.

Striding forward, he moved back toward the truck, scowling at the CSI guy again. "Are you sure you swabbed it down? I want every print on this thing."

The CSI gave him a bland look. "We got the guy on the scene, with multiple witness reports of the victim in the back. What more do we need?"

"What more do we need?" Lassiter asked, his eyebrows raising. "We need every bit of evidence we can find. I want to know everyone who touched this truck, everywhere it's been. I want every detail possible so we can nail this guy's ass to the wall. I want full convictions, maximum sentences, no shadow of doubt. Because if he gets off on a lesser charge? If he gets a lighter sentence for a lack of concrete evidence? I will hunt you down and hold you personally accountable for the lapse."

"But--" the CSI said.

"But nothing," Lassiter said. "Swab it again. Then, just to be sure, swab it one more time. And maybe--just _maybe_--I won't report your laziness to the chief."

The CSI looked a bit stricken but he pulled himself together, pulling out a fresh evidence bag.

Satisfied, Lassiter turned his attention back to his crime scene. O'Hara could wait by the bedside. Guster could crack the jokes. Henry Spencer could knock heads together. But Carlton Lassiter would show his concern with what _he_ did best, and close this case as tight as he could.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: One more part after this, just to finish up with Shawn :) But the girls needed a little time, and I admit, Juliet's part got a little sadder than I intended. Thanks!

PART THREE

Thinking about going to the hospital was much easier than actually being there. Waiting rooms were almost awkward by default, with a heavy side of discomfort. But sitting there, next to Gus and across from Henry Spencer, Juliet had to wonder what she was doing here.

She was here for Shawn, of course. The majority of the police department had a soft spot for the psychic, and she'd caught a uniform or two loitering near the entrance before she'd told them that she'd call with any news.

But she wasn't just here to represent the police department, not if she were honest with herself. Shawn was more than a coworker; he was a friend.

Her friend. That was a good term for it. Though, they didn't really hang out together--at least they hadn't in a while--but sometimes Juliet thought that Shawn seemed to want to.

Of course, it would be horribly awkward now, even more awkward than sitting in the waiting room. After all, Juliet had finally made her pitch and Shawn had let the lob sail on by.

So maybe _friends_ wasn't the best term for it. Friendly acquaintances. She and Shawn were _friendly_.

Which did not begin to explain why she was sitting there in the waiting room next to Shawn's father and best friend. Because the mixture of father, best friend, and friendly acquaintance really didn't make a whole lot of sense.

And really, as consuming as that train of thought could be, none of it really got at the heart of the matter. Namely, that she was in a hospital room waiting for word on Shawn Spencer. On some level, it didn't matter who she was, all that mattered was that he was okay.

She chewed her lip, looking at her hands. He had to be okay. Friends, friendly, _whatever_: he had to be okay.

Shawn Spencer was always okay. He could charge into situations with nothing more than a psychic hunch and talk down people with a gun. He could weasel his way into danger and come out with nothing more than an _awesome_ story to tell. He could even catch serial killers and emerge on the other side with something resembling a girlfriend.

Which reminded her, why was she here again? Waiting anxiously for a man who she was just _friendly_ with?

Family made sense. A best friend, sure. Maybe even a group of concerned colleagues. And a girlfriend, of course.

Which, come to think of it: "Where's Abigail?"

Gus seemed to flinch next to her, and Juliet suddenly felt guilty. Shawn's partner and longtime friend may have spent four years investigating heinous crimes, but he'd never quite had the constitution for blood and death. Which, Juliet figured, was fairly normal, and considering the fact that this was much more than a normal case--that it was _Shawn's _blood on Gus' hand, she should have been offering him a supportive ear, not peppering him with irrelevant questions regarding Shawn's girlfriend.

Which, for the record, was truly none of Juliet's business in the first place.

But the question was out there, and Juliet couldn't take it back.

Gus' brow creased, then horror washed over his face. "Oh, my God," he said. "I didn't call Abigail. Mr. Spencer, did you call Abigail?"

Henry looked at them from across the room. His face was taut and angry, but Juliet was skilled enough as a detective to know it was nothing more than a mask for his fear. "Shawn will barely even talk to me about her," he groused. "I've only met her, what, three times? I sort of have my mind on other things, Guster. Like making sure my kid doesn't die."

Juliet wanted to apologize, but she wasn't quite sure how to phrase it. _Sorry for giving you more things to think about_? Or maybe _sorry for not thinking to call Abigail for you_? Or maybe just _sorry for being here at all_.

Unfortunately, Gus was already in full on freak out mode. If Shawn could be frustratingly single-minded, Gus was almost as bad, only he hid his neurosis with less flair.

She shook her head, opening her mouth for a moment before finding words. "No, I mean, you don't have to--"

But Gus was fishing his phone out, muttering as he did. "You know, if Shawn had just listened to me when I said we needed to update our emergency contact information this wouldn't be an issue. Just put her on the form. It takes two seconds and then the hospital knows just who to call. But no, instead he manages to keep a girlfriend just long enough so he can get hurt and _I _have to call her with the bad news." He scrolled through his contacts, using his free arm to gesticulate wildly.

For most people, Juliet would attribute such behavior to the situation.

For Gus, it was mostly par for the course.

"What am I even supposed to say to her?" Gus asked. "_Hello, Abigail. How are you? I'm fine. But Shawn--not so much_?"

"Just keep it vague," Juliet offered meagerly. "Tell her Shawn's been in an accident and you'll explain the details when she gets here."

Gus seemed to ponder that. "That's really good," he said. "Why are you so good at that?"

"Cop, remember?" Juliet said, and her mind flitted briefly to the worst of them. Telling a mother her child was dead. Telling a husband that his wife's killer had escaped. Telling a little girl that her daddy wasn't coming home for Christmas. "I have had some experience in telling people things they don't really want to know."

"I hear that," Gus said. He stood, rolling his neck a little. "I'm going to go, you know. Take care of this."

She offered him a smile. "Good luck."

He returned her tidings with a look that was a cross between grim determination and total nausea.

She watched him go and mentally berated herself once again. Not only had she forced Gus to be in the uncomfortable position of transmitting bad news, but now she was alone with Shawn's father in a waiting room that she wasn't even sure she belonged in.

Such feelings were not totally uncommon for Juliet. She could be self-assured when she needed to be, though, in truth, sometimes she felt like she was just playing make believe and no one else had caught on that Juliet O'Hara was just some silly girl from Florida who wanted to play with guns because she was worried no one would respect her any other way. She had never been a tomboy necessarily, but she liked working in a man's world because she was never sure if she fit in with the rest of the girls.

Girls like Abigail Lytar. Girls who could smile coyly and bat their eyelashes and have boys like Shawn Spencer pining so hard that even after thirteen years, she was still the one he picked.

Juliet stiffened, swallowing hard. She wasn't jealous. That wasn't what this was about. It _wasn't_.

This was about Shawn, plain and simple. He was smart and he was funny and he was good at his job, and that was it. She'd be just as worried about anyone she worked with. Carlton, McNabb, the chief. Even that weird new detective in the precinct who had glasses from the 80s.

She shifted in her seat, trying to figure out a way to feel less conspicuous. She could be anyone, waiting for any patient here. Sitting in a waiting room wasn't exactly normal, but sitting here didn't make her abnormal either.

Her eyes met Henry's for a minute, and she felt her resolve withering. Henry's eyes were hard and unforgiving, as though this was _her_ fault. It was odd, seeing him like this. She had barely met the man, but Shawn's sparse stories about his father had never struck her as overly sentimental. The two seemed to have a strained peace which Juliet herself could never understand. Her desire to please her parents was only matched by their desire to dole out love and compliments to her, and how someone could not be proud of someone as smart, as talented, as good-hearted as Shawn...

She swallowed, averting her eyes. Lassiter had said once that Henry Spencer had been a good cop, hard-lined and by the book, without fail. Maybe that was why she'd never pegged him as someone who would be so nervous in a waiting room, especially over a kid he never seemed to be satisfied with.

Whatever problems Shawn and his father may have had, though, it was increasingly clear to her that none of it mattered. Henry Spencer had his priorities in order. Shawn, first. Everything else, second.

In some ways--in a lot of ways--Juliet respected that. Maybe even envied. Knowing what he wanted and not being afraid to get it. Shawn's dad hadn't shied away from this case, not even when Lassiter had threatened to throw a hissy fit. Because she had seen it in his eyes--he meant what he said. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his son, and he wasn't going to sit around being passive while Shawn needed help. Which was why the waiting room was so hard. She had no doubt that if he were skilled, he'd be in that operating room, rules and procedures be damned, just to make sure Shawn had the best care possible.

Someone who knew what he wanted.

Something Juliet had never excelled at. Not on a personal level. Sure, she could ace tests and do her job expertly. She was good at the shooting range and effective in the interrogation room. She'd solved her share of cases and made her share of busts.

But on the personal front? When she'd finally gotten up the courage to ask Shawn Spencer out, she'd been too late, and she was too embarrassed and uncertain to know how to proceed from there. She'd let it be awkward and uncertain and just plain _wrong_, and now Shawn was in a hospital with a bullet wound in his shoulder and she might never have the chance to tell him what she really felt. To see what there really was between them.

No matter how much she denied it, she still came back to that. The way he could make her smile. The way he could make her take a leap of faith.

The way he could scare her out of her mind.

When Gus had called, when she'd showed up in that storage lot, when Lassiter had found _blood_--her first response hadn't come from her cop's instincts. That hollow, numbing, encompassing terror. That horrible, impossible, painfully real _what if_.

It had been one of the most defining moments of her life. When she couldn't deny that she was hurt that he was dating Abigail. When she couldn't cover up how hard it was to see him and know she'd offered him all she had and he'd said _no_.

When she couldn't hide the fact that she didn't want to be Shawn's colleague, she didn't want to be friendly with him, she didn't even want to be friends with him--she wanted _more_, and she might never get to tell him that.

That was why she was here. Because _when_ Shawn woke up (and she had to believe that he would), she was going to tell him. She had to tell him. For both of their sakes. Because she'd rather know for sure how their story ended than taking the chance of a bullet doing it for them.

Gus interrupted her thoughts with a huff as he sat heavily in the chair next to her.

"Go okay?" she asked.

Gus gave her a withering look. "What do you think?"

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "She took it hard?"

"Hard?" Gus asked. "I spent three quarters of the conversation trying to convince her that I wasn't pulling a practical joke."

"And the other quarter?"

Gus snorted. "Her asking me _really_? And then _Wait, are you serious_ a couple of times."

Juliet nodded. "I suppose Shawn's antics would make someone quite reluctant to believe him from time to time."

"If I hadn't seen it myself, I might have trouble believing this one myself," Gus said, shaking his head as he eased back into the chair. "I always told him he talked too much. But no, _I like the sound of my own voice, I won't apologize for that_. My ass. Moron gets himself shot and my company car, too."

Juliet recognized it for what it was. Gus would talk, he'd make swipes at Shawn because that was how he worried. Just like Henry would sit and brood and Lassiter would stick it out at the job.

They all had it figured out. How to be there for Shawn. How to define their place in his life.

And Juliet still didn't have a clue.

"Uh, Mr. Henry Spencer?" a new voice broke in.

Henry was on his feet just that fast, and Gus wasn't far behind. Juliet's instinct was to follow, but she found herself immobile, stuck only watching as Henry and Gus approached the doctor.

Juliet knew this part, too. She knew all the steps and she knew everything that was happening. She could break down the scene just that easily, from the barely-holding-it-together father to the frantic best friend to the professionally restrained doctor who was there to deliver the news, good or bad.

Henry Spencer demanded answers, and she watched the middle-aged doctor smile, one hand out in placation. The doctor's expression was guarded, though, and it was clear while the news wasn't bad, it wasn't the all clear yet.

Shawn was alive. That was his part in this: staying alive. It was what he'd managed to do back in the storage yard. It was what he'd managed to do in the trunk of a car. He'd managed to do it at gunpoint, tied up, and in the back of a movie pickup, and Juliet knew that while Shawn was not brave at first brush, he had the heart of a hero hiding beneath his various personas.

Shaw was _alive_.

She didn't know how well he was doing or how long it would take him to recover. She didn't know if he was in intensive care or rattling at the cages of his hospital bed, trying to sweet talk his way into extra Jell-O for dessert.

She didn't know if the bullet had done serious damage to his shoulder or if the blood loss had been too severe. She didn't know if there was an infection setting in and what kind of physical therapy was slated for full recovery.

Juliet knew a lot of things, but those were the details that mattered, and she didn't know, and instead of going to find out, she was still sitting in a waiting room chair, like the _friendly acquaintance _that she was.

How many times had she been here, knowing exactly what she wanted and just being too afraid to go get it? Too afraid of putting herself out there, of being told _no_? Some things were worth fighting for; some things were worth a second chance.

Then the doctor nodded again, pointing down the hallway, leading Henry away.

Moment gone.

Just like the last one.

Just like a lifetime of moments.

The regret was hard to swallow, solaced only by the fact that she knew that Shawn was still alive.

"Family only," Gus said, sitting down next to her. He was scowling.

"It's standard procedure," Juliet told him without thinking.

Gus scoffed. "Sometimes even I get a little tired of standard procedure."

She gave him a rueful smile. "Guess that's why you work so well with Shawn."

Gus settled in next to her, nodding a little.

"So he's okay?" she asked.

"Alive," Gus replied. "Like I said, the doctor didn't say much."

"He's out of surgery?"

"And settled into a room," Gus confirmed. "But they wouldn't even tell me in which part of the hospital. I mean, he could still be in surgical recovery. Or ICU. And that's a huge difference. I mean, do they think I like sitting here just continuing to worry? And don't best friends count after almost _thirty years_? I practically subsidize Shawn's health insurance, so shouldn't I be included in his major medical decisions?"

Juliet sighed, rolling her neck a little. "It just...doesn't work like that," she told him.

"Well, it should," Gus replied curtly. "And how can you stand it? Just sitting here, like a nobody in a waiting room. You're a cop. Can't you do something? Flash a badge? Say Shawn's your witness?"

"Shawn's not in my custody."

"But he's still a witness."

She felt her anxiety ratchet up a notch. "And I'll interview him when I can."

"But aren't you going to ask?" Gus pushed, and it was more than she could take. Her own self-recriminations were one things and her internal monologue of self doubt was another, but hearing it out loud, from Gus, was just not something she could take.

Not now. Not _now_.

"Gus," she said, more strongly than she intended.

He paused, meeting her eyes.

Purposefully, she swallowed, keeping her emotions carefully in check. "Right now all we can do is _wait_," she said. "We've done our part. We found Shawn. And now, this is our job."

"To wait," Gus said, his voice cutting slightly.

"Yes," she said, trying to sound like she believed it.

"You just want to wait," Gus said again.

"That's what I'm doing," she said simply, crossing her arms over her chest and looking straight ahead.

Gus seemed to think about that. After a moment, he glanced at her furtively. "You know, I deliver drugs to this hospital," he said. "I might be able to sneak us closer."

"To do what?" she asked.

"Find out how Shawn is."

"Pharmaceutical contacts aren't going to get you his medical records," she said. "At best, they're going to get you in trouble for violating medical privacy law."

Gus glowered at her, sinking in his seat. "You used to be more fun than this."

"I'm sorry for trying to keep you from getting arrested."

"And for getting my car shot."

"I didn't get your car shot!"

Gus shrugged. "You were driving," he said. "Miss I'm-Trained-for-Pursuits."

"It's not my fault your car is painted like a target."

"It's blue," Gus said. "Not red. In that logic, the guy should have gone after Lassiter's car."

"Which is maroon."

"Close enough," Gus said.

"He's got a new one now, anyway."

"You're just saying that because you know I'm right."

"Right about what?" Juliet asked, incredulous.

"About the fact that you got my car shot."

"We didn't crash, did we?"

"Oh, so that's our measure of success?"

"I can think of worse measures of success."

"Well, I can think of better measures of success," Gus shot back.

"How about using Shawn being awake as one?" another voice interrupted.

Flushed, Juliet looked up, and shut her mouth, embarrassed. She was bickering like a child over insignificant things. The fact that Gus had started it wasn't much consolation, especially given where she was and what was going on.

Gus, for his part, looked equally chagrined, but was on his feet without hesitation. "He's awake?"

"He has been," Henry replied. The older man rubbed a hand over his head. "Sort of in and out now."

"But he's okay?" Gus prompted.

"Yeah, well, he has a hole in his shoulder," Henry said. "It's been cleaned and stitched, and the doctor thinks with some heavy duty antibiotics and some focused therapy, he'll probably be just fine."

"But the blood--"

Henry's face went a little hard. "They transfused him, okay?" he said. "Look, right now, we just need to be there. Shawn's been through a lot, and I figured he could use some friendly faces. So if you two are interested, you can follow me."

"Yes," Gus said. He turned back to Juliet, and there was a hint of an apology on his face. They were all tense. But these things were forgivable in the end, because they knew the reasons why. "Are you coming?"

A simple question, as much a peace offering as it was a genuine invitation. A chance to be part of Shawn's recovery. A part of Shawn's life.

She needed to remember that she wasn't just _friendly_ with Shawn, but Gus, too. They were a packaged set, and for as much as she wanted more with Shawn, she couldn't deny that she enjoyed Gus' company as well. If the last day had taught her that she couldn't hide her feelings for Shawn, it had also shown her just how well she knew Gus.

"Yeah," she said, getting to her feet. "I'll just--"

"Gus!" another voice called. "Gus!"

They all turned, looking down the hall, where Abigail Lytar was running toward them.

Shawn's girlfriend.

The one that got away.

The one he'd waited for.

She came up to them, wide-eyed and breathless. "Is he okay?" she asked. "You didn't tell me if he was okay? Is he okay?"

"We're just about to go see him," Gus informed her.

"So he's okay."

"He's better than he was three hours ago," Henry cut in. "Can we talk about this on the way? I'd really like to see my kid."

"Yeah," Gus said, putting a guiding hand on Abigail's back. Perfunctory and polite and familiar. She knew Gus, too. "Let's go."

"I thought you had to be kidding," Abigail was saying. "I mean, shot? Kidnapped? And he's okay?"

"Well, maybe it's best if Shawn tells you," Gus said. Then he glanced back at Juliet. "You coming?"

It was her chance to join them. Her chance to put herself out there as a part of Shawn's life. What part, she couldn't know yet, but she would never know unless she did it. Unless she took this risk. She'd been willing to a few hours ago, when Shawn was on the phone and it could have been the last time she talked to him.

One word. All she had to do was say one word. Leave the door open. Take just one step. One step toward Shawn.

But the scene before her was almost perfect. Henry at the front, shoulders tense and head pointed forward. Gus right behind. Abigail at his side.

The father, the best friend.

The girlfriend.

And there was no place for Juliet. Not there. Maybe not anywhere.

"I think I need to call the station," she called after them, and her voice trailed off. "I'll check in with him to get his statement later."

Gus maybe nodded, but he kept walking. Abigail was still talking and Henry was still leading. And Juliet watched them go until they turned a corner, and she was alone once again.

-o-

Of all the days.

Her day off. Her vacation. One of the first ones she had allowed herself since her maternity leave a few years back. Her chance to let her husband take her and their daughter away. As police chief, Karen Vick always seemed to be on call, and that made it hard to ever be truly _off duty_. But this time, she'd been determined to give it her best go. For her family's sake. For her own.

She had only left her phone on in case of emergencies. She knew her squad would survive without her, she really did, but sometimes it was hard to remember that she could survive without it.

They had made it four whole days, settled into their rented apartment on the shore. There was beach and sun and water. It was amazing, to watch her daughter play and to walk hand in hand with her husband, just like when they were younger. She didn't regret her decision to continue her career after starting a family, but sometimes she almost forgot what it was like to just be a wife and mother first, and let her job stay back in the station.

She had even left her phone back in the rental, perched forgotten on the bedside while her husband showed her daughter how to dig a moat, to keep out attackers. So she wasn't surprised to find that her voicemail was full.

But she was surprised when she pressed play and her Carlton Lassiter's voice. Her lead detective was intense, for lack of a better word, and the fact that he would call her on vacation didn't seem out of the realm of possibility. But the tone of his voice let her know right away something was wrong. It was more than just terse or to the point or generally annoyed. It was worried. Agitated.

And if that weren't enough, there were the details of the message:

"_We received a call from Guster. Spencer is missing. We recovered a shell casing and traces of blood on the scene. A text message to Guster from Spencer's number confirmed that he was shot. O'Hara and I are on the case, picking up leads from Guster's account of the last few days and Spencer's text. I know you said not to bother you, but. Well. I thought you might want to know."_

He'd thought she might want to know.

Lassiter had thought that maybe she'd want to know that her lead psychic, as he so conveniently coined himself, was missing. Was _shot_.

The psychic she had pursued, the one she had hired, the one she kept bringing back and signing off on. Shawn Spencer.

It was never easy when one of her officers or detectives were injured.

Shawn Spencer wasn't really one of hers, except that he was. He was in every way possible. A constant presence, for better or for worse, solving cases she requested him for and sometimes ones she explicitly didn't want him on.

He was frustrating and difficult and damn brilliant more often than not.

_A shell casing and traces of blood_.

Not the most grisly crime she'd heard described, but it hit her harder than she would have expected. Harder than she could even understand.

Shawn Spencer lived on a glorified version of police work, one where he could talk his way in and out of anything, one where he defied odds and always came out on top. From kidnappers, to thieves, to murderers, and even serial killers, he had an air of invincibility that had been challenged but never unseated.

Sometimes she let herself believe his bravado.

Maybe she shouldn't have.

Her mind went through the statistics. The number of missing person cases in a year. The percentage of those that were never found. The dark truth that most of them were just _dead_. She thought about all the ways people disposed of bodies, all the criminals who had it in them to pull the trigger and just not give a damn about the life they were taking. She thought about criminal psychology, the way people could feel like they were backed into corners and became killers on the spot.

Shawn Spencer wasn't just on a case now, he _was _the case. Kidnapping. Aggravated assault. Attempted murder.

She let the message finish, letting the next one play through. She skipped it when it was a question from the mayor's office about an issue with security detail. She skipped the next one, too, from her hair stylist, and the next one from an officer about official leave requests.

_End of new messages_.

Frustrated, Karen looked at her phone. How could that be the end of her messages? What about her status updates? Progress reports? How was the case coming? What leads did they have? What witnesses had they procured?

She looked at her phone, noting the time of the call from Lassiter. This morning. This case was fresh--very fresh. She glanced at the clock on the wall. The case wasn't even a day old.

There was a soft knock at the door, and her husband peeked his head in. "Everything okay?"

Her throat felt tight, and she felt herself nod. "I just--there's a case--"

His face fell a little. "You said no work."

She swallowed hard. "One of my men has been kidnapped," she told him. "They found blood on the scene."

At that, his annoyance melted, and his brow furrowed. "How bad?"

"That's what I have to find out."

He sighed a little, smiling at her. "Okay," he said. "I'll take the munchkin out for dinner. Should we bring you something back?"

She hesitated, looking at him. She thought about her daughter's smile and the sandcastles they'd built on the beach.

It wasn't an easy choice to make. In so many ways, it wasn't even fair. To have to pick, one family over the other. She could only hope they loved her enough to understand.

His face fell a little further, and he nodded knowingly, stepping further into the room. "I guess I'll see you back home," he said, standing close to her now and looking into her eyes.

Her smile was apologetic. "You know I love you, right?"

He gave her a small smile in return. "I'll see you at home, okay?"

She reached up a hand, touching him gently on the cheek. Leaning up, her lips met his. "Soon," she said.

He kissed her back, closing his eyes a little. When he pulled away, she could see the spark of desire in his expression. His lips quirked with a hint of bemusement. "I almost got a week," he said. "It was more than I'd hoped for."

"Not as much as you deserved," she mused with honest regret.

"Call your department," he told her. "See how the situation is. I expect a full report by the time I get home."

"You got it," she said.

He kissed again, briefly, before turning back toward the door. "You better get on that phone," he said, looking back at her. "These things don't solve themselves."

Her smile wavered a little, the harsh reality of what information she might learn settling over her again.

Karen couldn't help but watch, though, as her husband picked their daughter up again, taking her out the door, back to finish the vacation that they'd all started together.

She could still join them, if she wanted to. But it wasn't that simple, and she knew it.

_A shell casing and traces of blood_.

She had to know. Ignorance was the only decision she would never forgive herself for.

Almost as if on cue, her phone rang. The vestiges of her vacation gone, she answered it. "Hello," she said shortly. "Chief Vick."

"Chief," the voice on the other end said. "It's O'Hara."

"I assume you have a report for me," Karen said. "I received Lassiter's voicemail from nearly eight hours ago. Why haven't I been informed?"

"Well, we've been a little busy," O'Hara replied, and Karen could hear the exhaustion in her voice. Weariness, but something more. Something--

"Did you find him?" Karen asked abruptly, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"We found him," O'Hara said.

"Alive?"

There was a pause, then a relieved sigh. "He just got out of surgery."

"He's alright?" Karen prompted.

"Some muscle damage and blood loss," O'Hara reported. "They're keeping him on high grade antibiotics to keep infection at bay. He went a long time without treatment."

"You've seen him?"

"No," O'Hara said, then she hesitated. "I spoke with his doctor not long ago. His father and Gus are with him now. And Abigail. His girlfriend. I was, well. Going to take his statement soon."

Karen closed her eyes, nodded her head. O'Hara's attachment in this case was obvious, and her involvement as a detective in it was probably against better judgment. Karen couldn't help but be glad she hadn't been there to enforce it. Then again, who could she have assigned to the case that wouldn't take it personally?

Then again, Karen didn't have to be the police chief to see the attraction between O'Hara and Spencer. She didn't have to be much of anything to know that Juliet O'Hara wasn't in that waiting room as a cop.

In the end, though, Karen wasn't sure it mattered. Protocol was important. Rules provided structure. But, when all was said in done, all she really wanted to know was that the good guys won this one. That her men were okay.

She didn't know the circumstances of the kidnapping. And she didn't know how they'd resolved the case. She didn't even know what kind of aftermath there would be. But what she did know, what mattered most to her--was that Shawn was alive. He was out of surgery and recovering in a hospital bed.

"Did you get who did this?" Karen asked, her voice strained.

"One was dead on the scene. We have the other in custody."

"Good," Karen said, and she reached for her purse. "I want you and Lassiter to get in there before he lawyers up. Get the basics, and then I want a crack at him."

"But your vacation--"

"Just ended," Karen said, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she starting putting her clothes back in her suitcase. "I'll be back in Santa Barbara in an hour. Get your statement and tell Lassiter I expect a full report on my desk by the time I get there. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," O'Hara replied, a little surprised.

"And O'Hara?" Karen said, pausing in her preparation to leave. "I don't know how this all went down, but I can say that you did good."

There was another pause. "How can you know that?"

"Mr. Spencer is alive, is he not?"

"Yeah," the young detective replied.

"At the end of the day, that's all that matters," Karen told her. Then she had to pause, collecting her thoughts. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," O'Hara replied dutifully, and Karen thought she could hear something like relief in her detective's voice.

"Good," she said. "Now, remember to tell Lassiter that I want that report ready to go. And make sure the perp is in the interrogation room. I want to be fully brief the _moment _get back."

"I'm on it."

"Good," Karen said again. "I'll see you soon."

As she hung up, she tossed her phone in her purse. She could count on her husband to collect the rest of their belongings--and she would have to apologize again when he made it back to Santa Barbara for leaving him on such sudden notice.

It had been a good week, that much was true. And family did come first.

But it was just something she had to accept, something that came with the job. Her family wasn't just her husband and daughter. It was a precinct full of officers and cops, and even a wayward psychic.

Bags in hand, she just shook her head.

Family, indeed. Especially the damn wayward psychic, whether she wanted to admit it or not.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to those who have given this a chance :) It's been a fun foray into Psych fic for me!

PART FOUR

So, hospitals. Apparently not that much of a step up from being kidnapped in the trunk of a car, though he would probably argue that it was a substantial improvement from being tied in the back of pickup truck. All that wind in his hair really didn't do anything for him. The tousled look was so ten years ago.

So, really, he should have been happy about his new surroundings. After all, they were clean, moderately spacious, no one seemed to be waving any guns around and he wasn't tied to a chair. Though Lassiter did seem to be itching to pull his gun when he visited to collect a statement, and the IVs were rather restrictive, what with being stuck into his arms and all that.

He eyed them surreptitiously and wondered how vital they could be. For all he knew, that was just high priced water being dripped into his veins. Or perhaps they sprang for Sprite. Or even 7Up.

Which was, oddly enough, something to perk up his spirits about being laid up with a gown that merely tied in back. He was comfortable with his body, this much was true, but he wasn't sure he liked the idea of his father seeing him naked.

His eyes moved from the IVs to his father, who was still stationed in the chair by his bed, almost like he was stuck there. Shawn wondered if the old man had taken a bathroom break at any point. It certainly hadn't been while Shawn was awake, if he had, and given that Shawn had already been stuck in this place for two days, there was now good reason to believe that his father's colon was in jeopardy.

Or worse, that somewhere during his father's years as a hard ass, it had become a literal reality.

To think, his father could even pull of that bizarre mixture of menacing and ridiculous while half-asleep in a hospital chair. If he just stopped wearing those ridiculous shirts, it would help. Maybe he could bribe a nurse to say such mortifying prints were negative to Shawn's health. Surely, Gus would back him up on this one.

Well, Gus might were he not passed out on the _other_ chair in Shawn's hospital room. Unlike his father, Gus had actually left his seat from time to time, presumably to go eat something and use the facilities.

Facilities. What a funny name for the bathroom. Perhaps the term _can_ would be more appropriate. The john, even, for the colloquially minded.

Shawn sort of wished he could use the bathroom, no matter what name they liked to give it. He'd been confined to bed rest, quite literally, and while he had graduated to a bedpan after he came out of unconsciousness, he had yet to be cleared for walking.

What did these doctors know. He'd been shot in the shoulder, not the leg. So the blood loss and infection were forces to be reckoned with, but he was pretty sure that for a nice spot on an actual toilet, he'd be willing to take them on. He had survived a kidnapping; he was pretty sure he could handle the bathroom.

Of course, his case would be more convincing if he could stand up on his own and move without wanting to curl up into the fetal position and sob like a little girl.

It was a manly pain, though. He had taken a bullet. And undergone emergency surgery. And he was fighting off a mid-grade infection. And he had some stranger's blood coursing through his veins. All in all, pain was probably to be expected and he was man enough to let his guard down and show the world his pain.

And there was pain. It had been the thing that had woken him up, the first thing that had permeated the haze of his mind. Just that it _hurt_. It almost surprised him that he hadn't noticed it quite so acutely before.

The doctor had explained that the wound itself had been exacerbated by Shawn's excessive movement, and that the blood loss and infection were working against him. All of which Shawn could have concluded on his own were he not in so much pain.

Stoic, he was not.

And thirsty, he certainly was.

Chewing his lip, he looked at the table in the room. It was crowded with a myriad of things. Some drinks. A candy bar wrapper. A takeout box. Even a newspaper. And, most of all, the water pitcher. Standard hospital issue, with a little handle and a lid, and honest to God _water _inside.

Sure, Shawn would have preferred something more tasty. A pineapple smoothie would have been divine, but beggars could not be choosers. And injured psychics, fake or not, had to take what they could get. The idea of peeing in a pan was hard enough to deal with. The thought of pushing out a number two while flat on his back while his father refused to leave the room? Was even less appealing.

So, until he was graduated to the big boy's room, liquids it was.

If he could reach the thing.

Annoyed, he looked around, trying to figure out who had come to this brilliant decision to put the water in the farthest possible spot. It had been by his bedside when he'd taken his nap (rather, his nap had taken him--he still had no recollection of how or when he'd fallen asleep, just that his father had been talking and then he'd woken up), which meant that someone in the interim had decided to move it.

Possibly a nurse, he thought, giving his IVs another look. It could have been in the way of the IV pole, but these were almost empty, so it looked like they hadn't been messed with while he'd been asleep.

He looked to his father, eyes narrowed. Perhaps it was his father's sadistic ploy to make Shawn acknowledge his needs. The old man could be itching to feel useful, and moving the water could have been an attempt to satisfy that. Needless to say, his father was crafty enough for such a venture, and he was also morbid enough to make his injured, hospitalized son suffer for his own personal gain.

Or, worse, it was a lesson for Shawn. Trying to teach him self-reliance or survival or something equally inane that no father should teach in actual practice.

But his father was asleep, and his arms weren't even crossed angrily across his chest. This was a real sleep, a down-for-the-count kind of thing. His father wasn't tired, he was _exhausted_, and of all the things on his father's mind, torturing Shawn for his own benefit wasn't high on the list at the moment. (And thank God for small miracles!)

Lastly, his eyes flickered to Gus. His loyal friend. A beloved compatriot. The candy bar wrapper on the table was a Kit Kat. His father was a tried and true Snickers kind of guy, so the Kit Kat undoubtedly belonged to Gus. He probably liked the four sections--it would make it seem to last longer.

Chocolate could be a delicious treat, but it was also one that incurred a thirst. A deep one. And Gus did like to keep hydrated, sometimes obsessively so.

And there was a plastic cup on the table. Shawn's from earlier was still on the bedside. The one Shawn had thrown in an attempt to play basketball with the trash can was still on the floor by Gus' chair.

Which meant--

Someone had been drinking. Someone not afflicted with severe injury and pervasive illness had taken his water and used it for their own personal gain.

Someone who had eaten a Kit Kat and was sleeping off his atrocity.

There Shawn was, lying in bed, drugged up, fevered, transfused, and _shot_, and his best friend had stolen his hospital water to enjoy a Kit Kat that he hadn't even offered to share. First getting shot, then getting thrown in the trunk of a car, then being smacked upside the head and tied up, and now _this_?

He really needed to look into developing a worker's compensation package for Psych. So the doctor had told him that he was on his way to full recovery; that didn't change the fact that he was in pain and thirsty with the only pitcher or water _on the other side of the room_.

He could just wake his dad and Gus up. One word and he was fairly certain they'd be awake and asking him what he needed. Such had been the case the other three times he'd woken up so far. Between Gus' well-intentioned bumbling and his father's sharp tongued fretting, Shawn was feeling more coddled than a child or a sick puppy.

He'd been kidnapped and shot, and yeah, maybe it'd been bad, but he wasn't an invalid. At least, not permanently, and he was getting pretty tired of trying to prove otherwise. Not that he didn't appreciate the attention or try to milk it for all that it was worth, but there was a difference between being spoiled and being smothered and they had long surpassed the former and moved well into the latter. His father had tried to feed him ice chips, for goodness sakes. Straight out of a bad 80s TV show.

No, it was time to be resourceful.

Eying the pitcher, he thought about getting up. Moving slightly, hot pain lanced through his arm again and he felt flushed. Psychic or not, he had visions of himself standing and promptly falling again, which, despite his natural grace and debonair ease, would attract undue amounts of attention, thus thwarting the intent of the plan to begin with.

So maybe he hadn't thought this through. The bed was on wheels, but maneuvering the bed across the room and pulling all the equipment with it might be a trick. Disconnecting things might work, but then he was pretty sure that the staff would think he was dead and that wasn't a commotion he needed. He'd already had the dramatic pass out session with his dad on the side of the road, and he would rather not have a repeat of that, whether it was a false alarm or not.

Looking around, Shawn looked for some alternative inspiration.

There wasn't much within reach, and fondling the medical equipment was a no-go. Were it anyone but himself in the bed, he might feel more adventurous in that regard, but as it was, he did not feel like dying or experiencing any lapses in consciousness or any undue amounts of pain.

But there. The Kleenex box.

In Gus' self-centered snacking, he had not taken the tissues.

Yet, what good would that do him? His nose wasn't runny and he didn't feel like trying to blow it, because he was pretty sure that would not be so fun for his stitches (and he was quite intent on keeping his stitches happy at the moment, thank you very much).

But tissues could be wadded. They made pretty good bases for spit balls, were Shawn so inclined.

Too bad his mouth was dry. All this intravenous hydration may have kept his internal organs happy but didn't do a whole lot for his mouth. The cottony feeling had subsided some after being awake, but he wasn't exactly swimming in the saliva at the moment. Besides, where would he find a straw when he couldn't even get to the water?

But he could still throw it. Tissues were funny things to throw, and getting them to go anywhere was a bit of a feat.

And Shawn liked challenges.

Especially those of the Kleenex nature.

Reaching over with his good arm, he plucked a tissue from the box. Wadding it purposefully, he pressed it tightly in his palm, compacting it as best he could. The key, of course, was reducing its center of gravity, giving it more mass so it could actually get somewhere.

Satisfied, he eyed his target. It would be a stretch, that was for sure, but it was a worthy goal.

Eyes narrowed, he lowered his chin and aimed. The wind up was a bit stifled, but the effect was there, and then he released.

And watched his Kleenex ball unfurl in the air, floating easily next to the floor beside Gus' foot.

The bitter taste of failure. Not even cottonmouth made it sting less.

Or that could have been the painkillers wearing off.

He really wanted that water.

But more than that, he really wanted to hit Gus with a wadded up Kleenex. That would be justice, after all. For taking his water in the first place to consume a Kit Kat without even offering to share.

Nabbing another Kleenex, he created another ball, even firmer than the last. This time, it landed on the other side of Gus' chair.

His aim would never matter if he couldn't get the wad to be more solid. If he just had some water...

Perturbed, he stuffed the next Kleenex in his mouth. It already tasted like cotton, so some dissolvable fabric wasn't really all that bad. Maybe a bit fiber-y, but considering that he hadn't eaten anything that resembled real food in _days_, it really wasn't so bad.

After a moment, he removed it, finding it not as wet as he'd hoped, but enough to get the job done. Mashing up the Kleenex a bit more, he closed one eye, defining his target once again. Gus' perfect, round head was the ideal thing to aim for, and fortunately for Shawn, there was a lot to aim at. Normally he wouldn't need such a cushy target, but today he'd take all the help he could get.

Readied, aimed--then Shawn fired.

The dampened tissue arched into the air, looping easily toward Gus. But, Shawn had underestimated his own injury, and the lack of force behind the throw became painfully evident as it began its downward slope far too soon. It would never make it to Gus. Not even close.

But it was the perfect course for his dad.

Right in the balding head.

It hit with a wet smack, before bouncing off and hitting the ground with a glop.

For a second, Shawn dared to hope that his father could have slept through it.

But the old man startled, arms flailing and legs spasming as he blinked rapidly. A garbled string of something like profanity spewed from his mouth as he jerked to attention.

Then his eyes settled on Shawn, and then what he did next really surprised Shawn.

With wide eyes, chest heaving, the first words out of his father's mouth was: "Are you okay?"

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "I assume you mean that relatively speaking," he said, as a matter of fact.

His father stared at him, incredulous.

"After all," Shawn continued. "I do have a hole in my shoulder. And I've got an infection."

"So you're fine," his father said.

"Well, I'm not sure I would say _fine_," Shawn said.

"Are you dying?" his father snapped.

"Well, I think we're _all _dying."

"Are you bleeding again?"

"Not since they stitched me up."

"Is your fever up?"

"Do I look like a human thermometer?"

His father sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "So you woke me up just to be a pain in the ass," he concluded wearily.

"No," Shawn said. "I woke up to get a drink of water."

"By throwing something at me?"

"Again, no," Shawn said. "I was aiming at Gus."

His dad glanced to his side, where Gus was rousing. "I taught you better aim than that."

"Well, excuse me for being thrown off by fever, blood loss, and _surgery_," Shawn sniped.

"It wasn't even your right shoulder."

"So I get nothing for the general pain and overall impact?"

His father did not look amused. "If you're going to do something, you do it right," he said. "No half-assing it."

"Thank you for that well-timed lesson," Shawn replied. "Next time, if you could wait while I'm still under the anesthesia, I'm sure it'll be much more effective. You know, maybe if they'd let you _in _the operating room--"

"You two are really loud, you know that?" Gus muttered, squinting sleepily at them.

"Well, sorry, buddy, seeing as it is my hospital room, I sort of thought I had the prerogative," Shawn said.

Gus sat up, wincing as he did. "Yeah, well, at least you get the bed."

"Would you like to trade?" Shawn offered. "I'd gladly trade you the IVs and the bedpan for the chair."

Gus made a face. "Pass."

"Yeah, throwing exploits aside, you're not moving from that bed until the doctor signs off on it," his father said.

"Which, normally I wouldn't object to," Shawn agreed. "A little time off is just what I need."

"So what was with throwing things?" his father asked.

"Well, I was trying to stay in bed, as requested by all parties, but I was thirsty. Since _someone_ moved the water pitcher, I had no other choice but to attract attention." He looked purposefully at Gus.

"You could try _asking_."

"Which is what I'm doing now."

"So what was the need to throw things?"

"What did he throw?" Gus asked.

His dad picked up the wadded tissue, tossing it at Gus, who caught it, his face twisted in disgust as he flicked it clear of himself. "That is the poorest excuse for a spitwad I've ever seen."

"Well, if I'd had some _water_, I might have been able to do it properly."

"You're supposed to use spit."

"Of which I have very little since I'm so thirsty. Literally, parched. Do you know what it's like to be parched?"

"I think I know what it's like to be parched," Gus said, grumpily.

"Getting woozy after running the mile in gym class doesn't count."

"Mild dehydration," Gus insisted. "The nurse said so."

"And I'll bet she gave you water."

His father groaned, shoving to his feet. With much fuss, he grabbed a cup, pouring it into a fresh glass. Walking back to Shawn, he held it out. "There," he said. "Water. Are you happy?"

"No straw?" Shawn asked, as innocently as he could.

Mouth and chin set, his father pulled a straw from Shawn's old glass, plunking it down.

"Lemon?"

"Do you want the damn water or not?" his father snapped.

Mollified, Shawn took the glass. "Okay, okay," he said. "I just thought that maybe my heroics had earned me a bit more than that."

"Oh, please," his father said, shuffling back into his chair.

"It wasn't really heroic," Gus said with a thoughtful shrug, now fully awake and completely annoying.

Shawn took a sip, brow creased. Swallowing, he shook his head. "I got shot, I jumped on the hood of a moving vehicle, that's not enough?"

"But you didn't save anyone," Gus pointed out. "You're more of a survivor than a hero."

"What about standing up in the face of unrelenting evil? Holding true to the integrity of selfhood even under extreme duress?"

Gus made an indecisive face. "Ehh," he said.

Shawn groaned, flopping back. "Thank you, buddy," he said. "I can't believe you're denying me my heroics on a technicality."

"It's a pretty big technicality."

Taking another sip, Shawn looked at his friend crossly. His good humor was strained in this situation, much thanks to Garth Longmore and his gun.

And if that wasn't the set up for a raunchy movie, he wasn't sure what was.

None of which was helping him come up with an adequate comeback. Maybe this whole ordeal was affecting him more than he had thought.

He allowed himself another sip, letting it linger long not to quench his thirst but to muster around for some comedic dignity. "Yeah, well, you're a...." He furrowed his brow, swallowing hard against the persistent dryness in his throat. "A technicality." He mumbled the conclusion, averting his eyes.

"Wow, you really don't feel well, do you?" Gus said.

"The doctor said he'd still be pretty out of it," his father interjected, as if Shawn needed the help. "We're barely twelve hours post-op. Cut him a break."

"Yeah," Shawn chimed in, despite himself. "Twelve hours ago, I was in _surgery_."

"I know, Shawn," Gus said firmly. "I was there."

"A cushy waiting room doesn't exactly mean _there_."

"I had your blood on my hands," Gus said. "I had to take three showers to clean that up."

"And I haven't gotten to take a shower in two days!" Shawn exclaimed. "Do you know what that is doing for my hair? How am I supposed to pick up attractive nurses while looking like this."

"I'm sure _Abigail_ will keep you company."

Well, that much was true. Sometimes it was hard to remember that his flirtatious wiles had to be reigned in. "Is she coming back soon?"

Gus sighed, sitting back and rolling his eyes a bit. "She was just here."

"I didn't see her."

"You were asleep."

"And no one thought to wake me?" Shawn asked, feeling a rise in his incredulity. "Why not? I could have used the company."

"Because I told him not to," his father said.

Shawn turned wounded eyes to his father.

"The doctor said you're supposed to be taking it easy," his dad continued. "So you're going to be taking it easy. Remember you've still got the infection to take care of and I'm not wasting any more time in this hell hole than absolutely necessary."

"Well, thank you very much everyone," Shawn said. "I now feel sufficiently neglected, abused, and forgotten."

"You do realize that we've been sitting here all day. And all last night. For _you_."

Shawn refused to be placated. "After you send my friends away and drink my water."

"And I'm not your friend?" Gus asked, somewhat indignant.

Shawn jutted his chin a little. "You still drank my water," he said.

Gus rolled his eyes in earnest this time. "Fine," he said. "What would you like to drink? Name it, and I'll get it for you."

At that, Shawn brightened. "Really?"

"It's better than hearing you complain about your water all day."

"Hey, keep it simple," his dad said. "You haven't even had solids yet."

"But a pineapple smoothie isn't a solid," Shawn pointed out, rather gleefully.

"How am I supposed to find a pineapple smoothie in the hospital?" Gus asked.

"That is why you have the magic head," Shawn told him. "For just such awesome magic."

"Maybe I'll just bring Abigail back."

Shawn coughed, dry and weak, letting his upper body enunciate the motion.

"Okay, okay," Gus grumbled, standing up. "But only because you're still in the hospital bed. I looked at your chart, dude. The medicine you're on? Isn't anything to mess around with."

"And thank you for such a reassuring thought," Shawn said.

"I'm just saying."

"And I'm just thirsty."

At that, Gus relented, moving to the door with a scowl on his face. But his friend paused before he left, and with his lingering gaze, Shawn could see that this had been hard on him.

And Shawn knew it wasn't just about the company car.

A pineapple smoothie would help, but it wouldn't make it better. For either of them. But, for now, he knew it was the best either of them could manage.

Considering all that Shawn was trying to manage at the moment, that really was something.

It was a weird thing, being in the hospital. Being cooped up in a bed was not his forte and entertaining the odd string of visitors had been more than a little different. After all, he was devoid of his usual props and limited to the bare essential gestures. Any excessive dancing or gesticulating was certainly out of the question, and Shawn had found it surprisingly difficult to communicate effectively without his full range of motion.

But weirder still was the way other people acted. The Chief, actually being sweet to him. Lassiter, being uncomfortable. And Juliet had barely stayed long enough to ask him if he really wanted his official statement to include the part where he screamed like a little girl when poor Garth Longmore had taken the shot.

Even his father--just _sitting _there. He knew his father had a certain fortitude for the bizarre, but this perhaps could take the cake.

And why wasn't there more cake on the hospital's menu?

Thinking about cake would do him no good. Back to his father.

Who was just _sitting there_.

Of all the things. _Sitting there_. Not talking. Not making critical commentary on how poorly Shawn wore his gown. He hadn't even asked how many hats were in the room, though that was probably a pretty easy one considering it was a private room.

But still. His father being quiet was never exactly a good thing.

Besides, Shawn didn't like silence. Silence was, too, well, _silent_.

"So, uh, seems like a nice day for some fishing," Shawn said, hoping to elicit some response.

His father made a face at him. "You hate fishing."

"Well, maybe," Shawn said. "But near death experiences are great for reminding me to rethink life. To take nothing for granted. And never again do I wish to take for granted how some days are just too precious to _not_ slaughter innocent fish."

His father scowled.

"Or, you know, camping. Though, I think I did have enough of the great outdoors for a while," Shawn admitted, keenly aware of the time he'd spent stumbling through the woods. "Beside, aren't there ticks in the woods? I mean, have they even checked me for that? Behind the ears?" Shawn put his fingers behind the ears. "Or in the hair. Which, hey, would be way easier for you to check for."

There was another scowl, but it was no more pronounced than the first. Shawn had pulled out a bald joke and everything, but no dice at getting the old man to crack.

Normally, he'd ramp it up a notch. Keep prattling until he found a weakness and exploited it.

The problem was, however, that the weakness today was Shawn himself. He just did not have the energy to be his usual self.

Instead, he sighed. "Is there something wrong, Dad?" he asked. "I mean, beside the obvious."

His father grunted a little at that. "Beyond the obvious?"

"The whole shot-kidnapped-hospital thing," Shawn said, trying to shrug a little.

"Oh, _that_ thing," his father returned with heavy sarcasm.

"Oh, come on," Shawn said. "The bullet went in, the bullet went out. A little blood loss, a little fever, and I've earned my merit badge. Like Rocky. Or Rambo. Without, you know, the bandana. Maybe I can have Gus get me one before he comes back. Do you have a phone?"

"You're not calling him," his father said shortly.

"But I'm sure he has one," Shawn said. "He was into the A-Team pretty heavy when he was a kid."

"You're not taking this very seriously," his father fussed, his brow furrowed.

"I'm taking this very seriously," Shawn countered. "I do not joke about bandanas."

"This isn't about the bandana."

"Well, if it's about the hitting you with the wet Kleenex, I'm sorry. But I couldn't very well get up on my own to get my own drink of water. No excessive movement yet, remember?"

His father rolled his eyes. "The doctor said you're going to be fine."

Shawn was incredulous. "First I'm not taking it seriously enough and now I'm taking it too seriously?" he asked. "Come on, Dad. Make up your mind."

Shifting in his seat, his father huffed. "Well, if you had taken it seriously in the first place, we probably wouldn't be here."

It was Shawn's turn to roll his eyes. He threw his good hand in the air. "Oh, okay," he said. "I'm not even off the pain meds yet and you're giving me a lecture."

"You should never have been in that storage yard by yourself at night," his father continued, seeing his opening and unable to resist it.

"Yes, because I should be able to know when crazy criminals are there with guns."

"You're doing a cop's job without any of the protection."

"No, I'm doing _my _job," Shawn said insistently.

"Yeah, so getting shot was all just another day at the office?"

Shawn sighed. "I admit, that one threw me."

"Threw you?" his father said, eyes wide. "What about getting tossed in the trunk? You do know how lucky you are that he didn't kill you and drive off to bury you, don't you? Could have chopped you up right there, burned you beyond recognition with a welder."

Wincing, Shawn shook his head. "Thanks, Dad, for that very pleasant image."

"Well, how do you think I felt getting called in the middle of the night to come down there?"

"About as good as I felt being thrown in a trunk with a bullet hole in my shoulder."

"Which is my point," his father said forcefully, sitting forward now. "You can't take those kinds of risks. You shouldn't be putting yourself in that kind of danger. You're not armed, Shawn, and believe it or not, you're not invincible."

With a short laugh, Shawn gave his father a look. "Sitting here with the stitched up hole in my shoulder, I think I know that pretty well."

"Do you?" his father challenged. "So what was with jumping on the hood of the car, huh? What kind of hare-brained idea was that?"

"You're the one who said to never stay with a bad guy. To get out, first chance you get."

"Not by jumping from a _speeding car_," his father exclaimed loudly.

Shawn sighed. "Okay, not my smartest move ever," he said. He didn't know how to explain it. That it wasn't just about the heroics of it, but because, in the end, he just so did not want to be a hostage anymore.

Playing the hostage was playing the victim. And Shawn was many things, but a victim?

No, thank you. That required too much vulnerability. Too much trust of outside sources. There was no control in it. Staying in the back of that pickup truck, he was at the mercy of whatever that maniac tried to pull off and whatever his friends managed to intervene with. Staying in that pickup kept him the victim.

Taking that jump, for as stupid as it may have been, gave him the choice.

Shawn liked choices. Blonde or brunette, carrots or peas, hair gel or cream. Some were harder than others, and sitting in the back of that pickup, it really had been pretty easy.

His father was staring at him, eyes dark with a wild bent. It was typical Henry Spencer, passionate and stubborn.

And scared out of his damned mind.

Because Shawn could put two and two together, just like his dad could. And his dad had concluded all the ways it could have gone wrong when Shawn took that leap, while Shawn had fixated on the one way it could go right. But he could have ended up as a spot on the pavement, and no matter what kind of friction there could be between them, Shawn didn't doubt that his father wanted to avoid that at almost any cost.

Damn it.

Shawn didn't like the conclusion this took him to. Because if his father was scared to lose him, that meant that his father very possibly, sort of, kind of..._loved _him.

The sentimentality of it was almost nauseating, but, then again, that could be the ebb of the pain medication that he was in dire need to have replaced.

And to make it all worse? Shawn couldn't capitalize. Didn't _want _to. Because, okay, the thoughts had crossed his mind--what if he never got to see his friends again. What if he never got to see his dad again. What if he never got to see Abigail again. What if he never got to see Juliet--

Which was not something he could deal with right now.

He could barely deal with this. That after over thirty years of hurt and misunderstanding and frustration, he ended up with the very thing he'd wanted to see all along: that his dad loved him.

Sure, the old man showed it in funny ways and was pretty much mental about it nine times out of ten, but that didn't change the fact that the worry was written all over his father's face. His father hadn't even moved since he'd been here, a feat Gus hadn't even accomplished. And while that did speak to his father's persistence, it spoke more clearly to the fact that this was his dad and he was Henry Spencer's son and fake psychic or not, that bond mattered.

To _both _of them.

Swallowing, Shawn looked at his hands, feeling sheepish. "Okay," he said.

His father's eyebrows raised. "Okay?"

Shawn nodded, looking up. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"You're right," he said. "Jumping on the car was pretty stupid."

His father's stare was nothing short of incredulous. "You're apologizing."

"I seem to be," he said.

"You're actually apologizing?"

Shawn fidgeted. "Well, I can always take it back."

"No, I just want to be sure I got this straight," his father said. "You, Shawn Spencer, are actually _apologizing_. Admitting that maybe I was right and that you were _wrong_."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to make this harder?"

"Maybe we should get it in writing," his father suggested.

"You know, if you're going to be like this--"

"No--"

"Because if you recall, I was suffering from severe blood loss."

"Which you made worse by jumping."

"And infection," Shawn pointed out.

"Which meant you shouldn't have moved at all."

"So the fact that I was bleeding and in pain means nothing to you? What do I have to do, actually die before I get some sympathy?"

His father's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "No, I just...," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't ever want to go through that again."

Shawn relaxed a little. "Well, I can promise you, Dad, I really don't want to give it a go again either."

His father nodded, looking up at him. "You did good, kid."

It wasn't much, but it was more than Shawn had expected. "Yeah," he said. "Well, what you taught me--it probably helped. A lot."

Something like amused satisfaction settled over his father's face, and it lingered there for a long moment.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Shawn tried to shift, wincing as the movement pulled against the stitches in his shoulder. All sense of bravado and facade aside, he really was pretty thirsty. And tired. And tired of being thirsty.

He blinked, slowly, and the room spun a little bit.

Apparently, being shot and kidnapped was more exhausting than he'd thought. His face felt hot and a flush of the fever swept over him as the pain swelled again.

There was a soft snort from beside him, and a firm hand on his shoulder. "Go back to bed, kid," his father said.

Shawn looked at him, and realized things were a little blurry. "But what about my pineapple smoothie?"

"It'll be here when you wake up," his dad assured him, hitting the button that reclined his bed.

Shawn frowned a little. "But what if Gus gets thirsty again?" he asked.

"He won't," his dad said.

"But how can you be sure?"

"Because I'll be here when you wake up, too," his dad said.

And there was something right about that--something oddly contenting. Shawn didn't have to think about it, he didn't have to get from A to B to C. He could just trust for once that he'd end up where he was supposed to be, so he closed his eyes and let himself fall back to sleep.

He dreamed of pineapples doing the cha cha, and Gus was there to suggest that the hula would be more appropriate for a fruit of such a stature, and Lassiter would want to try some target practice, and Abigail shook her head and told him that his job was far more dangerous than it had a right to be. And the Chief hired him and paid him in smoothies and his father was putting Garth Longmore in jail and Juliet was there, just smiling and smiling and smiling until Shawn woke up.

_end_


End file.
